How I Met Your Mother
by jesuisl0ser
Summary: A man recalls the ups and downs that led to meeting his wife. He shares some of these stories with his children, which leads him to reminisce about his life and the people who made a difference in it along the way. All canon couples mentioned, MarkOC.
1. Let Me Tell You a Story

**A/N: Don't know if anything like this has been done. And I'm not sure how many RENTheads out there are still reading fanfics. The Rent fandom's died down a bit since the show's close, but I think keeping the spirit of RENT alive is very important. Also, I'm always looking to improve my writing for school and on my own, so feedback's welcome!  
PSA: For those of you on LJ, I created a RENT livejournal comm to keep the RENT love going. It's called rent_islove. Hope some of you can join up; once enough active members join, we can start posting.  
****DISCLAIMER: I don't own _Rent_, or the TV show _How I Met Your Mother_, off which the premise of this fanfic is based.**

THE YEAR 2007

"Dad, what are you doing?" Fourteen-year-old Andrew raised his eyebrows and glanced at his father, who sat down in a chair across from him.

Andrew's sister, Angela, sat beside her younger brother on the couch, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She reached up to move a strand of blonde hair away from her face. "I was talking to Jessie on the phone about something _really_ important, dad, can't I just---"

"It probably wasn't _that_ important, Angela," interrupted her father, a small smile tugging at his features. "Okay, kids. The 15-year anniversary of your mom and me is coming up."

Andrew nodded. "Yeah. So?"

"So, you know how every time you two ask how your mother and I met, we always answer with, 'It's a long story?'" The father asked, leaning back against the chair.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Angela replied, "But I just figured it was too lovey-dovey and cheesie for you guys to bring up in front of me and the dweeb over here." She made a face toward her brother, who punched her arm. Hard.

"Ow! Andy, that hurt, you're such an idiot!"

"Alright, guys, settle down." The father's voice was stern, but his expression softened after a moment. "As I was saying, I think it's important for you to know how me and your mother met each other. And I think you're old enough now to understand. It's more of an interesting story than you might think."

"How long is this gonna take?" Andrew asked, crossing his arms behind his head, "I was gonna go watch the hockey game on TV."

The father sighed in exasperation. "Come on, kids. I think you'll appreciate this." He took a deep breath, adjusting the glasses that lay loosely on his nose. "But before I get right to it, I have to go way back to explain a few things, first. A lot of factors contributed to how your mom and I met. A lot of things that I've had to wait to tell you until you were mature enough."

"Oh, great . . . " Angela muttered.

"It started when your Aunt Maureen broke up with me---"

Andrew shuddered. "That's _so_ gross, dad. I can't believe you and Aunt Mo were _dating_."

The father chuckled. "Yeah, sometimes I can't believe it myself. Anyway, it started in November of 1989 . . . "

* * *

"Mark . . . pookie. I think we need to talk."

I looked up from my cup of coffee and stared into the bright brown eyes of Maureen Johnson, my girlfriend. God, she was gorgeous. But the tone in her voice was telling me something not-so-good was about to happen (And, yes, kids . . . she called me "pookie". Get your laughs out now).

"What's up, babe?" We were sitting in a little cafe I always liked to take her to.

Maureen took a deep breath. "We're gonna have to break up, Marky."

At first, I had no idea what to say. We sat in silence for a moment before I could muster, "...Break up? Why? I mean . . . is it something that I . . . "

And then she used the stereotypical line almost every breakup consists of: "It's not you, pookie, it's me!"

Yeah. She went there. Except, she wasn't wrong in saying so. It _was_ her fault. All her fault.

"Mark, we have to break up, because, well . . . there's someone new in my life. And I don't want us to hurt each other, you know?" Maureen was talking nonchalantly, as if we were discussing the front page of _The_ _New York Times_.

"Who . . . who is he?" I gulped, wondering who could've swept her off her feet without my even noticing.

Maureen smiled a little, her gaze shifting to something beyond me as she dreamily replied, "Joanne."

Um . . . what? "His name is Joanne?"

She giggled. "No, Mark. _Her_ name is Joanne."

Oh.

My.

God.

"We've sorta been . . . seeing each other for a couple of weeks, now, Mark," Maureen said, fidgeting with the straw in her glass of soda, "And I know it wouldn't be fair to you. So I'm just gonna break it off now, and you can focus on your filmmaking career, and---"

"What the _hell_, Maureen?" I cried, interrupting her. The couple sitting across from us turned to glance in our direction awkwardly. "I can't believe you'd do this to me! And with a _girl_? Honestly? What could a girl give you that I couldn't?"

"It was _totally_ spontaneous, Mark. I couldn't really control how I felt about her. It just happened. I'm sorry, baby."

I stood, throwing a few dollar bills on the table. "Maureen, just . . . do what you want, okay? Whatever."

"_Maaaaaaaaaaaarky_, wait!" Suddenly, her whining didn't seem so cute anymore.

I glanced back at her once more, and walked away, leaving her sitting there at the table alone.

* * *

"Oh, my _God_, Dad! Aunt Mo left you for a girl?" Andrew Cohen was clutching his sides, laughing.

Mark sighed. "Yeah, kiddo. She did. She left me for your Aunt Joanne."

"That's . . . really sad, Dad. Like, sad enough that I'm shocked you're actually telling anyone. I'd keep that kind of thing to myself," Angela said with a smirk.

"Well," Mark replied, "the reason I don't is that if your Aunt Maureen hadn't broken up with me, I would've never met a certain group of people who---"

"Let me guess," Andrew cut off, "Helped you meet Mom."

"That's right."

* * *

"Oh my _God_, Mark. She was cheating on you with a _woman_? That is freakin' hilarious." (He used the other 'f' word, kids. Your mother would kill me if I didn't censor half the things that flew out of the mouths of me and my friends back in the day.)

My best friend Roger Davis (yes, kids, that would be Uncle Roger) fell back against the couch at our loft, chuckling wildly.

Though he was laughing at my expense, I couldn't help to feel a little relieved about the fact that Roger was laughing at all. He didn't do that much, not since April had died.

April Ericsson had been Roger's girlfriend for a long time, since the end of high school. But when she found out they both had contracted HIV, she went to drastic measures. She committed suicide, leaving Roger to deal with it all on his own.

I hadn't been able to bring Roger out of his depression since it happened a few months prior, and ironically, my own misery was helping him just a bit.

"Shove it, Rog," I replied bluntly, flopping onto the couch beside him, "What the hell am I gonna do? I was her production manager for all her stupid protests. I was supposed to help her with her 'rising acting career'. We dated for two and a half years, Rog, and I did _everything_ for her."

Roger nodded. "Yeah, man. I know." His tone was serious, now. "That sucks. Wanna get drunk?"

Ah, Roger. He always knew how to cheer me up---not.

"I guess. Why not?" Drinking was better than Roger resorting to shooting up. Which, thankfully, hadn't happened for quite a long time.

But Roger was my best friend. I couldn't help but worry about him, no matter what.

We toasted our half-consumed bottles of beer to girlfriends who don't cheat, and to possibly getting some heat in the freezing apartment in which we lived in the dead of winter.

You have to understand, kids, that your Uncle Rog and I weren't the biggest fans of paying the rent.


	2. Photograph

**Hope you like this chapter, folks. Suggestions are always welcome.**

* * *

"So Uncle Benny lived with you guys, and when he moved out he got rich and promised you and Uncle Roger that you wouldn't have to pay the rent?" Angela summed up.

Mark Cohen nodded at his daughter. "That's right. Except, he went back on that promise."

"That sucks," Andrew mused. He watched as his father stood up and wandered over to a picture in a frame on a wall in the corner of the room. It consisted of a group of seven people, smiling and in mid-laughter.

"Have you ever really looked at this photo, kids?" Mark asked, lifting the frame off its hook and handing it to Angela.

They both shook their heads. "Nope," Andrew muttered, "But, hey, that's Aunt Maureen and Aunt Joanne. They looked young."

"Aunt Maureen's jacket is _awesome_!" Angela commented, "You think she still has it so I could borrow it?"

Mark rolled his eyes. _Who knew late 80's fashion would make a comeback?_

"There's Uncle Rog. And Uncle Collins," Angela went on, pointing to the punk-rocker in the far left corner of the picture, then to a tall, African American man who was grinning widely next to Mark. There was a sadness in her voice.

Andrew stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I don't remember Uncle Roger all that much." His tone was almost regretful.

Mark looked down at the ground. "That's part of why I'm telling you all this, Andy. So you can get to know him. He loved you and Angie very much."

Angela bit her lip. "I remember Uncle Rog used to lift me high in the air when I was little. And Uncle Collins gave the best hugs. He still does." Her blue eyes filled with tears a little. "I miss them, Dad."

Mark nodded, reaching over to place a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I know, sweetheart. I miss them too."

"Dad, why isn't Uncle Benny in this picture?" Andrew asked. He and Angela had both also noticed the two unfamiliar faces in the photo, a small Latina girl hugging their Uncle Roger, and a young man---who was dressed very convincingly as a young woman---holding Collins' hand.

"Your Uncle Benny and I weren't on such great terms. For a really long time," Mark answered. "More on that later. The point is, all the people in this photo _were_ my family, when I was living in the East Village way back when. When my life was just starting, like yours are. And if it hadn't been for them, I don't think my life would be the way it is now. And I wouldn't have you two to be pains in my ass and my life's greatest joy all at once," their father joked.

Angela chuckled. "You know you love us, Dad."

"You got me there," he replied, "And now, on with the story . . .Christmas of 1989, kids, as you've probably heard me and your Aunt Maureen and your Uncle Collins say before, was a night that changed all our lives.

"Kids, I think you've heard---a number of times---about how I met your Aunt Joanne on Christmas Eve in an extremely awkward situation that led us to become friends. I had to help her fix Maureen's sound equipment for her performance piece that very night. The fact that Maureen dumped me for her was something that, ironically, brought us closer together.

"But, a lot of relationships were formed on Christmas Eve of 1989 that I would've never thought possible."

Mark reached over and pointed to the two faces he knew very well his children didn't recognize. "That girl over there next to your Uncle Roger? That's Mimi Marquez. She lived in the apartment below ours back in the East Village. She met Roger by asking him to light her candle when Benny had shut off our power."

Angela's eyes widened. "That's romantic!"

Mark chuckled. "Roger didn't seem to think so at the time . . . "

* * *

"She was so _bold_, Mark, don't you think? I mean, I'd never even had a decent conversation with her before she was asking me to take her out on the town, or whatever the hell . . . " Roger Davis took a drag from his cigarette and looked up at me expectantly.

I shrugged. "Well, you've been needing to get out of the house, Roger. And Mimi seems nice."

Roger gave me a look and I knew all too well what it meant: _But she's no April_.

Of course, Roger's mindset changed within a few hours. We'd all gone out to the Life Cafe after Maureen's performance, and in that time, Roger found out that Mimi was HIV positive, just like him. I guess they connected on a level beyond what I could understand, because by the end of the night, they were holding hands and kissing and Roger was truly smiling for the first time in a while.

I'll tell you about the first time I met Mimi Marquez. It was just before Maureen's performance, and I was walking around St. Mark's Place with Roger, who was a nervous wreck. He'd just had a screaming match with Mimi a little while earlier, and wanted to make it up to her by asking her to the party at the Life.

Of course, I went with him, because that's what best friends do.

I almost wanted to laugh at Roger standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, after he'd just told off a drug dealer who was yelling at him not to "steal his client".

"Mark," Roger said, "this is Mimi."

She was a small, skinny Latina girl with brown curly hair. Despite her posture, she had a glow in her eyes that drew me in. She extended her hand. "Hi!"

"She'll be joining us tonight," Roger finished. She smiled at me, her purple-lipstick-covered lips parting to reveal a set of pearly whites.

I figured this would be a good opportunity to film. I held up my camera and said, "This is Mimi. Say hi!"

Mimi moved close to the lens and made a silly face, and I smirked. There was something about her that made me think she really would be good for Roger. She was spunky and full of life. And that was what Roger needed: someone to bring him out of his shell.

* * *

"She's pretty," Angela commented, gazing down at the picture once more. "But who's this? I think I saw a picture of her at Uncle Collins' place a long time ago."

Mark nodded. "You probably did. That's Angel."

"Okay, question." Andrew threw his hands up. "Is that . . . is that a guy?"

"Yes, Andrew."

Andrew raised his eyebrows. "Dad, you didn't tell me you had a friend that was a drag queen."

"Angel was one of the kindest people I've ever met."

Angela ducked her head. "Was?"

"Yes," Mark said sadly, "But that comes later. I'm sure if Uncle Collins were here right now to talk to you guys about this, he could go on and on about it. Angel was the first person your Uncle Collins ever fell in love with."

* * *

"Angel's amazing, Mark. Every part of her." Collins sighed, and I rolled my eyes. Sure, I was happy for Collins, but I've never seen him act this way before. Collins was a rebellious, and at times snobby, college professor who had always considered love to be a "sham".

Roger, Maureen and I always knew he hadn't really meant that. He'd just needed to find the right person. And he had.

"That's great, man," I said, taking a swig of beer. Roger and Mimi had just gone outside to have a talk. Christmas was certainly proving to be nothing short of magical for most of my friends. Collins, on his way to visit Roger and me, had gotten mugged and Angel had been the one to help him. She'd even bought him a new coat to replace the one the muggers had ruined (with money she'd gotten from causing an Akita to . . . well, if you wanna hear that story, kids, ask me another time).

As if on cue, Angel sashayed over to the both of us. "Hey there," she said, winking at Collins before sitting down beside him. She was dressed in an elaborate outfit featuring a green and yellow shirt and a flower-print skirt. Kids, ask any of your aunts or uncles, or even your mother: Angel took fashion very seriously.

"Hey," Collins said sheepishly, and to see the vagabond anarchist blush was beyond amusing.

Angel nodded to me as I began aimlessly filming the snow outside the Life Cafe. "Mark."

I looked away from the camera. "Yes?"

"Collins tells me you're an aspiring filmmaker. That's great!"

I shrugged. "I'm trying. Thanks."

"But hey, listen." She looked me in the eyes. "You should take some time to stop filming your life and start living it. Sometimes you just gotta live in the moment, you know, instead of watch it happen?"

And that, kids, was the best advice I'd ever gotten from anyone. And it's the advice that your mother and I always give you: you only live once. Enjoy it as much as you can.


	3. Enter Roger Davis

**Glad to see a lot of you are adding this story to your favorites! Feedback and suggestions are always welcome. Enjoy! DISCLAIMER: I own nothing besides the occassional OC.**

* * *

I think it's only fair, kids, to tell you how I met your Uncle Roger. Angela, you were only three when he passed away, and Andy, you never got a chance to know him.

When I first met Roger Davis, I thought he was the most pompous jerk I'd ever met.

I had just transferred to the local public high school after years of my mother babying me at a series of private schools. I was seventeen---the same age you are, Angela.

My first class of the day was World History, and I honestly had no idea how I was going to make friends. Your grandmother, my mother Sara, wasn't too keen on sending me to a public school, but my dad put his foot down and told me I needed to start "acting like a man."

You know your Grandpa. I don't think you need any more explanation than that.

The old bitty of a teacher, Mrs. Franco, seated me behind a tall kid in all black clothing who looked like he was about ready to punch someone out. Enter Roger Davis, my future best friend.

("Ha! Dad! You probably couldn't take Uncle Roger. He looks real buff in this picture." "Thanks, Andy. Thanks for the support.")

He turned around in his chair and sniffed. "Whassup?"

Blinking stupidly, I adjusted my glasses. "Uh, not much. I just transferred here from---"

"Yeah, I don't care. Point is, the fact that you transferred to this craphole at all"---although he used a different word than 'crap'---"makes me obliged to pity your sorry butt." (Again...different word choice. Your Uncle Rog had a horrible potty-mouth that he inevitably passed onto me. I kind of still do. Your mother would kill me if I told you that.)

"So, the rumors are true, huh?" I asked, taking out a notebook from my new backpack, "this place really does suck?"

"Beyond suck, man. What's your name?"

"Mark Cohen." I held out my hand to shake his, but he just looked at me. He was wearing black eyeliner and his light hair was gelled up. Wow. This kid was the typical punk-rock stereotype.

"I'm Roger. Roger Davis. And I'm gonna be a rock star someday."

(Of course, Rog didn't end up one of those renown touring rock stars or end up in the Rock N' Roll Hall of Fame, but he did end up writing his one song of glory, which turned out to be his ultimate goal. More on that later.)

"That's nice," I said, trying to be polite.

Roger snorted. "_Nice_? It's only the best freakin' thing ever. I play guitar."

"Cool," I replied, figuring 'nice' wasn't on Roger's words of choice.

"So, what are you into?"

I shrugged. "I like photography. And film."

"Oh, like, cameras and stuff?"

("He said 'shit', didn't he, dad?"

"Watch it, Andy. I think you're more like your Uncle Rog than you know.")

"Yeah," I said, becoming increasingly annoyed by this arrogant kid.

"Mr. Davis!" was the shrill voice of Mrs. Franco, "Would you kindly shut your mouth while I'm trying to take attendance?"

Roger turned around and raised his hands defensively. "Mark started it."

I . . . I _what_? I bore a hole into the back of his head with my eyes.

"Well then, Mr. Cohen, shut _your_ mouth before I send you down to the assistant principal's office!"

Roger snickered, leaning back in his chair, and I had never more wanted to kick someone in the---well, let's just say, "in a place where the sun doesn't shine."

But the thing is, the kid who I'd labeled as my enemy on the first day of school turned out to be the exact opposite.

From what I could tell, Roger Davis didn't have many friends. And initially, I felt he deserved it. He hung out with the "stoners and rockers" crowd, which seemed to consist of maybe three or four very greasy-looking guys. Out of all of them, Roger seemed to have the most potential, but he didn't seem to have enough initiative to do something about that.

He was kind of a loner, surrounded by those stoner guys and those girls who admired the "cool" rocker in the junior class, but feeling nothing for any of them.

I couldn't stand the sight of him.

"Hey, look at whitey and his bagged lunch!" someone called behind me as I was walking to the cafeteria. Oh, crap. My mother had made a huge mistake by packing me a nice Kosher meal.

I turned around (another gigantic mistake) to face two very tall and muscular kids who were obviously seniors. One of them shuffled up to me. "You gonna eat that, whitey? Always thought you were a ghost or something, 'cause you're so _pale_! Ghosts can't eat lunch!"

(...Yeah. Some of the kids I went to high school with weren't so bright, as shown through their insults. I'm sure you can relate.)

"Yeah, well," I muttered, raising my fist, about to make what is known in my memory as Big Mistake #3, "I'm clearly not a ghost, 'cause I can do _this_!"

And I punched him in the nose. Which hurt me more than his nose, believe me. (Laugh all you want, Andrew.)

"You're about to pay for that, whitey!"

And so began the wild goose chase around the gym field . . . me being the goose, of course.

The guy's pal (who was even more buff than him) was about to knock me a good one, when someone stepped in front of my cowering frame.

Roger.

"Hey, back off!" Roger shouted, cracking his knuckles, "Or you'll wish you never started picking on Cohen here. Got it?"

"You're just as scrawny as he is!" one of the guys replied accusingly.

Roger cleared his throat, and because he was just an inch or so taller than these two guys, his stepping right in their faces made him look a hell of a lot more threatening.

"Back. Off," he repeated, slower this time. And eventually, after what looked like a sneering contest, they did.

Roger turned to me. "Well, what are you sitting on the ground for, Mark? Get up, man."

And I did. I brushed off my jacket and cleaned off my glasses with my sleeve, running after Roger as he started to walk away.

He'd helped me out. I owed him one. I figured he at least deserved for me to attempt to be his friend. So I did.

I hoped that maybe he'd look beyond his being, well, a jerk, and we could form a friendship.

And, you guessed it: we did.


	4. Enter Maureen Johnson

**Yay! I'm glad to see that you all are enjoying this so far. Constructive criticsm and suggestions are welcome. DISCLAIMER: I own nothing except for the occassional OC. And _Zombies at the Casino_. We all love _Zombies at the Casino_. XD**

* * *

"Dad! Aunt Maureen's here!" Andrew Cohen called loudly.

Maureen Johnson sashayed into the Cohen residence, removing her sunglasses and smiling broadly. "How goes it, Andy? I swear you need a tan. You inherited your daddy's really pale skin."

Andrew rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Don't I know it. All my friends tell me so."

"If your dad would just let me take you and Angela out for _one day_," Maureen mused with a sigh, flopping down onto the couch, "I could make you look like _stars_. I mean, not like your mom didn't help with your looks or anything. Marky picked a good one, but still---"

"And, thanks so much, Maureen, for that insight." Mark Cohen entered the living room, a small smirk on his face, "Hey."

She stood up immediately, running over to him. "Marky, dahling! Are you happy to see me?"

"As always." They embraced, and Angela entered the room, as well.

"Aunt Maureen!" she cried excitedly, "What's up?"

"Oh, a little of this and that," Maureen replied airily, breaking away from Mark, "Aunt Joanne's got a full work day today and I don't have any auditions 'til later, so I'm so completely _bored_."

Mark rolled his eyes. "How was your last job?"

"Oh, fine. You know those people on _Law & Order_. They'll pay you a few bucks to look dead on set and then you're done."

Angela grasped Maureen's shoulder. "You're gonna have your big break one day, I know it! I remember Dad took me to one of your performances when I was younger, you were great!"

"I still do my performances in between, sweet pea, don't worry," Maureen said dreamily, "I'll never give up the dream."

"The dream?" Andrew asked, taking a seat on the couch, "What dream?"

"Oh, I don't know. I just like that phrase."

The kids were used to their "aunt"'s odd behavior. Although they had a few biological aunts, their favorite was the one they _weren't_ related to.

"It's funny you should visit today, Mo," Mark said, "I've been in the process of telling the kids how I met their mom the past few days. Which, of course, includes you."

"Of course it includes me, why wouldn't it?" Maureen said flatly, sitting in between Andrew and Angela on the couch.

"Dad, you never told us how you two met," Andrew said, "I mean, you told us how you met Uncle Roger---"

"Ha!" Maureen interrupted, "_That's_ a funny story. Your dad was such a scrawny little---"

"_Maureen_. Can you _not_?" Mark muttered through gritted teeth.

She playfully winked at him. "You know I'm kidding. Anyway, I remember when your dad and I met, kiddies. He was _so_ in love with me."

"Not true," Mark said quietly.

"_So_ true," Maureen countered, "Should you tell it, or shall I?"

Mark adjusted his glasses. "I think I'd better tell it . . . So, it was prom of senior year in high school. And I needed a date . . . "

* * *

Roger had recently met April Ericsson, the girl I mentioned before to you, kids, through some guy in a local band he was friends with. And he was head-over-heels for her. Roger was all set with a date (despite his initial refusal to go to prom in the first place---April made him. And where Roger went, I was forced to follow. It's a Best Friends Code thing. More on that later.)

I wasn't 'all set'. Not one bit.

"Dude," Roger mumbled, popping a potato chip into his mouth, "You need a prom date."

"No shit," I replied, snagging a chip from the bag. We were sitting on the couch at Roger's brother's place, because that was practically where he lived at the time. Roger didn't like it all that much living at home. His parents cared about him a lot, and maybe that's what scared him.

"So, I'm setting you up."

"You're _what_?" I cried, almost spitting up the chips I was in the middle of chewing.

Roger shrugged. "My brother knows this guy, who knows this other guy's cousin. She's coming over. In a few minutes, actually."

"Wh . . . what? Roger, you can't do this. I don't even know her!"

"So, that's the point. Get to know her. I met her a few times, she's nice."

"Well, I---I---what's her name?"

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Roger casually got up and wandered to answer it. "Hey, Maureen."

("And so entered the most beautiful girl you'd ever seen," Maureen cut off, smirking.

Mark rolled his eyes. "I wasn't gonna say that."

"If Mom were around, she probably wouldn't appreciate that," Angela giggled.

Maureen grinned once again. "Well, lucky for us, she's at work. I love your mom, kids, but seriously, I probably could totally take her in a fight---"

"_Maureen_."

"What?!"

"Let me continue the story . . . ")

"Hi."

A young girl stood at the door, and yes. She was beautiful ("Aw, Marky! That's so sweet!" "Shh, I'm not finished.").

She had long, dark curly hair, and a bright smile decorated in dark red lipstick. She seemed to have a lot of spunk and attitude, and it attracted me instantly.

"This is Mark," said Roger, smirking evilly at me as he went back to the couch.

I stood up, because that's what my dad had taught me to do when girls entered a room, and she giggled. "Hah. You're cute."

"Um . . . thank you?" ("Wow, Dad. That's awkward." "_Still_ not finished, Andrew.")

"So, I ordered a pizza," Roger went on, "And April's gonna meet us here soon. We can chill out and watch a movie on TV."

"Sweet," I said, trying to sound cool. I guess it had worked. Maureen was smiling at me. We made small talk, and April showed up and we watched bad horror movies, and everything was great until . . .

Roger brought out the beer.

Kids, this is why I don't want you drinking at your ages. Your mom would probably kill me for saying this is the only reason: not because it's wrong, not because it's illegal . . . but because it makes you do really stupid, embarrassing things. Especially when you're eighteen.

I was on my third can and already completely wasted. Hiccuping, stumbling around, all that ("You never had much of a stomach for alcohol." "Maureen, stop interrupting!").

The only reason I remember much of what happened is because Roger made me remember. By taunting me about it. Over and over. He was a real _d_. . . a real _mean_ person when he wanted to be, kids.

"That movie was stupid," April said decidedly when the credits for _Zombies at the Casino_ began to roll. I was an inspiring filmmaker, and even my amateur crap wasn't as much _crap_ as _Zombies at the Casino_. Every time I feel like my career's going down the drain, I think of that movie.

Anyway, I was completely drunk, and it was after one in the morning. Luckily, it wasn't a school night.

"Whoa," I muttered, staring at Maureen's---at _Maureen_ ("Dad, you don't have to censor it." "Yes, I do, Andrew. You are _exactly_ why I need to censor my storytelling."), "You are so totally _hot_."

She giggled. "Thanks. You're not so bad yourself, Marky."

I hated when anyone called me Marky. But it sounded incredibly wonderful when she said it. We sat there, looking at each other for a moment. It was perfect. Roger and April weren't paying any attention to us, and it was like the world was ours, just for a few seconds.

So then I leaned in to kiss her.

And threw up all over her lap, and proceeded to fall off the couch in some kind of fit that crossed between laughter and tears.

* * *

"Ew!" Angela cried, "Ew, ew! That is so gross."

Maureen shuddered. "Tell me about it, sweetie. It was awful."

"It wasn't _that_ bad," Mark said, trying to defend himself in front of his kids.

"Plus, you told the story wrong, Marky. Your jaw was practically on the _floor_ when you saw me walk into the apartment. Face it. You were drooling."

"_Anyway_," Mark continued, ignoring the laughter of his children, "Needless to say Maureen kinda took off after that. And I didn't see her again until a couple of weeks later."

Maureen smiled. "Yep. At the prom."

"You _went_ with him?" Angela cried, "After he threw up on you and cried a river?"

"Yeah," Maureen sighed, "There's something endearing about your pale, skinny dad that I guess your mother saw, too. He's just too _cute_!"

"Thanks so much," Mark muttered wryly.

"So, what'd you do at the prom?"

Maureen and Mark shared a look. "That," Maureen said, standing up, blushing, "is another story."

The kids decided, without speaking, that they didn't want to know_ that_ story at all.


	5. Don't Forget

**Depressing chapter ahoy, mateys. DISCLAIMER: Own nothing except for any OCs created.**

* * *

Need to backtrack a little, guys. Don't worry---it won't take long. I figured you should know more about why Christmas of 1989 wasn't just important to me, but to my friends as well.

As I said before, kids, Roger and I weren't fans of paying the rent. We weren't too fond of paying for anything, actually. This is probably because when Roger and Collins and Benny and Maureen and I decided to live together in a loft on the lower east side of Manhattan, we all vowed we wouldn't become slaves to the corporate evil.

Your Uncle Collins and Aunt Maureen were hard-core anarchists, so of course they initiated this pact. It was back in the early 80's, when we were all just starting out. Maureen and I had been dating for about two years, and April was with Roger on and off. Benny had been friends with us since senior year of high school, which we were just coming out of. Everything was new to us.

"Alright, guys," Collins had said, taking a drag from his cigarette as we all sat around our loft, "As long as we're all living here, I think it's best we make a pact."

I'd only met Collins about three months prior, but even still, I was enthralled by everything he said, no matter what. He could've said the alphabet from A to Z and it would've sounded scholarly and smart and wonderful. His diction was unique, and the way words rolled off his tongue was almost poetic. And the weird thing was, he was high almost all the time.

(Your mother is going to kill me for saying that, too. Shh!)

Anyway, Roger had met him at a protest Maureen had dragged Roger to and Collins clicked with the both of them immediately.

Collins was the kind of quiet guy whose mind was constantly brewing with ideas. You could tell by the look on his face, which was usually a thoughtful stare into some odd musing of his own, that his mind was always on the move.

I remember when I met him, he warmly shook my hand and clapped me on the back, saying, "Rog has told me a lot about you!" He then flopped on the couch and offered me a joint.

Not much has changed, even though your Uncle Collins can't leave the house much these days.

Back to the story.

"A pact?" Benny asked, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, "What do you mean?"

Collins strode over to the window and peered through it. "See all those people down there? Those sad people, wandering around the streets of New York just to get their money and go home?" He sighed. "That's what it's all about these days. Money."

Maureen nodded fervently. "Hell if I'm gonna end up like that. _I'm_ gonna be an actress."

Roger shrugged his shoulders. "I gotta call April."

I rolled my eyes. "Didn't you call her, like, an hour ago?"

"Shut up."

Collins shuffled back toward the group of us. "Seriously. We have to think about this. Are we going to throw ourselves at the corporate master?"

"Of course not!" Maureen shouted.

I thought about it. My passion was filmmaking. It was what I wanted to do; it had always been that way.

And Collins' inspiring words just further proved what I'd been thinking all along.

To hell with the system. I was going to be a filmmaker, no matter what the cost.

"Of course not," I echoed, and held up my bottle of beer. Collins grinned brightly. And it was the five of us, and things were simple.

* * *

Things turned out a bit differently by the time 1989 rolled around, which is when the story at Christmas began, as I mentioned.

Collins got a job as a philosophy professor, and ended up moving out to Massachusetts for a while to teach at MIT. We were all happy for him, but of course his presence was missed.

Benny became one of those corporate yuppies Collins had warned about. And it disappointed us all a great deal. And for a while, things were bad.

I remember the date exactly: January 15th, 1987. Collins came home to visit. But it wasn't an ordinary visit, not at all.

Kids, your mother and I have brought you up to be open-minded. I hope you always carry that virtue with you. Uncle Collins told Roger and me point-blank when we met him that he was gay. And it was alright with us.

When he came home, I knew something was wrong.

"What happened?" I asked, wringing my hands. We were sitting side-by-side on the couch. Roger was with April doing God only knew what. I couldn't keep track of them those days.

Collins cleared his throat, and when he spoke, he wasn't as articulate as usual. His voice was broken. "You . . . you remember Eric, don't you? I mentioned him in my postcards."  
Eric. He was Collins' boyfriend. His first. I nodded.

"He . . . we . . . I have HIV, Mark. I got the results yesterday." Collins' eyes brimmed with tears, and then I was hugging him as he told me what happened in between choked cries, how Eric had betrayed him and lied to him, and how everything was falling apart around him without stopping---

I told him he could stay as long as he needed to. It was his home, too, after all. And he nodded, too shattered to speak.

Your Uncle Roger contracted HIV a year later, through sharing needles with April. April did not take the news well, as you both know. She was gone soon after that.

Life is short, kids. Be careful with it. Treasure it. Make the right decisions, but don't shy away from what life has to offer.

I thought, in those couple of years, that the only way to live life was cautiously. I lived in fear.

But you know Christmas of 1989 changed that for me.

So, that's my point. Even with everything that goes on, the good and the bad and the horrible---don't forget to live.


	6. Footage

**A/N: Thanks for adding this to your alert lists! Cheesie chapter here to make up for the angst. DISCLAIMER: Don't own RENT, never will.**

* * *

"You need to tell a happy story today, Dad," Angela Cohen said decidedly, "The one you told last week was too sad."

Andrew was absently tossing a football from side to side in his hands. "Yeah," he said gruffly, trying to hide his obvious emotional concurrence, "You should. You keep talking about how everything changed at Christmas because of the people you met. What about after Christmas?"

"Hm." Mark Cohen leaned back in his chair. "Good point. After Christmas, I slowly began to realize that you shouldn't take the people in your life for granted . . . "

* * *

Many of the months that followed December 1989 are imprinted in my memory for being some of the best of my young adult life.

In late January, I was doing more filmmaking than ever. I was working on a documentary on the side, but I was trying my hand at a lot of things.

I decided then was as good a time as any to work on directing a scripted piece. Sounds fun, right?

A word of advice: Never cast your friends in your own films.

* * *

"Mimi, the line is, 'I'm sick of this town', not 'I'm sick of this city'. You live in a small town in this movie, remember?"

Mimi Marquez sighed. "Mark, I swear I said 'town'. Roger, did I not say 'town'?"

I turned to look at Roger, who was munching on a potato chip. I'd gathered everyone at the loft for the umpteenth time in the span of two weeks, as I had cast each of my friends in a short film I was producing. It was just an exercise, but I wanted it to be good practice for what I hoped would be an eventual career.

When I'd asked them all to do it, I'd received enthusiastic responses during my initial proposal at the Life Cafe.

"Ooh, honey, I'd love to be part of your rising filmmaking career!" Angel had said enthusiastically, "Can I do the makeup?"

I remember chuckling. "It's a little less extravagant than that, Angel. I was thinking you would, you know, _act_ in the movie, too."

Joanne had shrugged her shoulders at the proposal. "As long as I get to wear a paper bag over my face, I'm fine with this."

"We get to be _movie stars_," Mimi had gushed.

Apparently, though, they weren't as enthusiastic as I'd thought.

I groaned. "Roger, you're not supposed to be _eating_, you're in the next scene!"

"Huh?" He raised an eyebrow. "Oh. Honestly, I stopped caring about your movie, like, last week, Mark. No offense."

"If I said that about any of your many failed songs," I muttered, "I'd be a dead man."

"Shove it."

To my left, Angel and Collins were...erm...entertaining each other in the corner of the room. "Oh, come _on_, guys!" I cried, squeezing my eyes shut, "Get a room!"

Angel giggled. "Sorry, sweetie. Am I in this scene?" She smoothed out the wig that was perfectly placed on her head. "'Cause if I am . . . I kinda forgot my lines."

Sighing heavily, I turned back to my camera. "Okay, one more time, Mimi. Action!"

Mimi threw her hand over her forehead. "Ugh, I'm so _sick_ of living in this _town_," she recited, putting emphasis on the final word.

Roger cackled in the background, and there was some shuffling and muttering:

"Oh, shit, I just stepped on the bag of chips." _Crackle_. _Stomp. Stomp.  
_  
"Nice going, Collins."

Maureen's voice: "Pookie, you need to see me in my acting debut in Mark's film!"

"What's the plot of this movie, again?"

"Hell, I don't even know the title; don't ask me."

"I want a drink."

"_Stop_!" I shouted in spite of myself, whirling around to face them all in frustration.

I was angry. And tired. And no one was cooperating with me. "Just _stop_."

I looked up at all of them, and that was when I realized what was so blatantly in front of me all along.

Maureen was giggling at something Joanne had just said to her. Joanne clasped her hand tightly, and the look they exchanged was priceless.

Angel and Collins were sitting on the couch, and Collins was explaining the theory of naturalism, his words flowing rhythmically as always. Angel looked up at him in awe, absently playing with a strand of yarn on Collins' beanie.

Roger had taken his guitar from its spot against the kitchen counter and had begun to play a quiet tune. And then I looked back at Mimi, who was making silly faces at the camera, her brown eyes bright with happiness.

This.

This was what I was meant to document. Not silly scripted words, but the love reflected in my friends' eyes. The evidence was all there: why they meant so much to me, why we were all here in the first place.

Love.

I took my camera off its tripod and made a quick pan across the room. I didn't want to miss a single thing.

I didn't want to film my friends playing other people.

I wanted to film my friends playing themselves. Being themselves.

That, I concluded that day, was more important than anything else the world had to offer for me to view behind a camera lens.

"Are we gonna roll it again, Marky?" Maureen asked, "From the top?"

I shook my head, smiling a little. "Nah," I said, "I think I have all the footage I need."


	7. Valentine's Day

Angela Cohen was in the process of texting one of her good friends on her bright blue cell phone.

Mark chuckled as his daughter's fingers flew across the keyboard of the phone rapidly. "Where's the fire?" he joked.

"Amy just told me Josh got her a rose for Valentine's Day! Isn't that adorable?" Receiving another chuckle in reply, she raised her eyebrows. "What's so funny?"

"Valentine's Day."

"Well, you're the one who got Mom a bouquet. It's sitting in the kitchen in a vase. Don't tell _me_ that it's sappy if you did _that_." His daughter's attitude was so reminiscent of her mother's that Mark almost laughed again.

"It's not that, Angie. It's just that most Valentine's Days that I've had always end up in absolute mayhem. V-Day _changes_ people."

Angela looked up from her phone. "Dare I ask, Dad?"

He answered her question with another: "Did your Aunt Joanne ever tell you about The Table Incident?"

Andrew poked his head through the doorway of the living room, munching on a chocolate cookie. "Nope."

Mark smirked. "I'm not sure if I should . . . "

"Dad, come _on_," Andrew muttered, walking over to lean against the doorframe, "We're not little kids anymore."

"No. I guess you're not." A wistful look came over Mark's face for a moment, but it was gone within seconds. "Alright. As long as your mother's working tonight . . . "

* * *

Valentine's Day, 1990.

Maureen and Joanne were rehearsing for one of Maureen's many performance pieces . . . at least, they _had_ been. Before any of us knew what happened, Maureen had called us up at the loft, going on and on about how she and Joanne had broken up---for the millionth time in the last couple of months.

Mimi and Roger were fighting on and off, as well. Seemed as if the only happy people around were Angel and Collins and, well, me. Although at the time, I wasn't sure if I was happy at all.

"One of them will come around, like always," Roger had predicted, strumming a few notes on his guitar as he scanned a few pamphlets about Santa Fe, New Mexico, "And then they'll make up and treat us all to ice cream like usual, for putting us through the hell of neither of them speaking to each other. I personally want colored sprinkles on a cone of chocolate ice cream this time."

I hoped Roger was right.

Later that day, I met up with Angel and Collins at the usual Life Cafe for a usual dinner. I guess they felt bad for me because I was the only single one of the group of us. Initially, I'd insisted they spend the day to themselves.

"Oh, sweetie, we'll have all morning and afternoon to ourselves," Angel had said nonchalantly, much to Collins' chagrin, "It'd be no fun for you to sit around on Valentine's Day."  
I wasn't sure how fun being a third wheel would be (especially on this day of days), but I went anyway.

As soon as I walked through the scratched brown doors of the Life, Angel came running up to me in her clunky high heels. "Mark!"

I blinked. "Hi, Angel. Where's Collins?"

Angel's eyes darted back and forth nervously as she replied, "Um. We have a bit of . . . a situation."

"What?" I peered around the busy restaurant for Collins, and sure enough, found him, in what looked like one of the most awkward ordeals I'd ever witnessed.

Collins was standing at a table near the bar yelling something or other to the person standing on top of it. My gaze shifted from Collins to the person he was screeching at, and almost had to pinch myself because I thought I was dreaming: It was Joanne.

Now, kids, your Aunt Joanne never had much tolerance for alcohol. This next event only made this fact abundantly clear.

"Oh, my _God_," I whispered in disbelief. Angel grabbed my arm and led me through the crowd of people that had formed around the table.

As we got closer, I could hear what Collins was saying: "Joanne, _please_ get down from the damn table! People are starting to form a _crowd_!"

I tapped him on the shoulder and he whirled around. "Mark, man. Thank God you're here. Maybe you can do something."

"What the hell is going on?" I gaped.

"Angel and I came here to meet you and found her completely wasted," he explained, "And clearly . . . she's not taking the break-up well. At all."

I forced my eyes to look up again to find Joanne waving her jacket around like a lunatic. Kids . . . alcohol is bad. Very, very bad. Remember when I told you I threw up on Maureen because of it? Well, this was ten times worse.

"Maureen wants someone more _out_going?!" she cried, stomping around on the wooden table, "Oh, I'll give her outgoing. I'll give her inside-out-all-over-going! I'll give her someone who _loves the limelight_."

And then, kids, I did what I always do at times like these. My hands instinctively went toward the inside of the brown satchel on my shoulders. ("No, Dad. You didn't. Tell me you didn't!")

I took out my camera, and began to film her extravagant performance that could've rivaled one of Maureen's any day.

Joanne began to dance, shaking . . . well . . . every body part she could, moving her arms every which way, all of that. I couldn't help it. I just couldn't. Because not only was it disturbing to see my friend, a very sharp and distinguished defense lawyer who knew her stuff, practically stripping down on a table in a public restaurant . . . it was also completely and utterly hilarious.

As soon as Angel and Collins caught on, it was hard for them to hide their laughter, as well.

Collins buried his face into the crook of Angel's neck, stifling the chuckles erupting from his lips. Angel had brought a hand to her mouth, shaking her head slowly, her eyes squinted slightly showing she was trying to control her own laughter.

"Yee-_hah_! Kiss this, Maureen! Look at me! No one breaks up with _me_ on Valentine's Day!"

The crowd was clapping, the manager of the Life was standing near us in bewilderment, and I stood there filming it all.

When the staff of the restaurant had finally had enough, Collins and I literally had to drag Joanne off the table and coax her out of the restaurant (Angel had to pick up the bar tab for her, as well). At one point, she threw a punch at me, narrowly missing my nose. You know your Aunt Joanne, kids . . . she's tough.

"I mean," she slurred, Angel supporting her back as we all walked, "I think I'm pretty damn sexy, considering. She doesn't know what the hell she's missing. Right, Mark? Aren't I sexy?"

"I . . . um . . . " Yeah. You can imagine the awkwardness.

I trudged back to the loft, and when Roger asked how dinner had gone, I was honestly too tired to give him a coherent answer. Practically carrying a grown, angry, hung-over African American lawyer down the streets of New York was not fun. At all.

She ended up crashing at Angel and Collins' place. Angel told me that when Joanne woke up the next day (with a killer hangover, may I add), she wanted to ask what had happened the night before.

"Oh, nothing much," Collins had apparently said, "You just had a few too many."

Well, _that_ had certainly been an understatement.

* * *

"So, what'd you do with it?" Andrew asked, "With the tape of Aunt Joanne?"

Mark smirked, getting up slowly and walking over to a box in the corner of the room that the kids recognized as storage for his old film equipment. He reached into the box and pulled out a small roll of film.

"Oh, my _God_, Dad!" Angela cried, "That's awful! Did you ever show her?"

He nodded. "Once. Told her I'd never show anyone else unless for whatever reason, I needed to, . You know. If Roger or Collins or I got caught with something not-so-legal, we had back-up in the court of law."

"Dad, that's blackmail."

"I know." Mark smiled triumphantly, but then cleared his throat, and added, "Blackmail isn't nice, kids. Don't do it. Anyway, like I said, Valentine's Day changes people sometimes. Joanne's maybe had two or three drinks since then in her entire life, or at least Maureen tells me. Either way, they ended up together again after that, as you both already know."

"Wow," Andrew muttered. "I'm _never_ gonna break up with a girl on Valentine's Day."

Mark leaned against the wall with a grin. "Well, I'm glad I taught you something today, kids. And you know what else?"

"What?"

"One of the people in that crowd at the Life was your mother. I just didn't know it yet."


	8. With a Little Help from My Friends

**Sorry for the lack of updates! Quite a lengthy chapter to make up for that. Enjoy! DISCLAIMER: Don't own Rent, never will.**

* * *

"You had really cool friends, Dad," Angela sighed, "What did our _lovely_ grandparents think of them?"

Mark chuckled at his daughter's sarcasm. Sara and Joseph Cohen were quite the characters; Sara and her overprotective nature and Joseph's sternness were characteristics of Mark's parents that were not lost on his kids.

"My parents were in for quite a shock when they met my friends."

"They really did meet 'em?" Andrew quipped, "They never mentioned it to us."

"Yeah. I think it was an experience they've tried to forget . . . "

* * *

"Oh, man . . . Mimi, Rog, cut it _out_. My mom and dad are gonna be here in five minutes!"

Of course, Mimi and Roger were passionately making out on the ratty couch, and I was panicking. Kids, you know how your grandparents are. They're very old-fashioned. They also have more of a dysfunctional relationship than you could ever imagine. My mother was raised as a Catholic, but converted to Judaism for my father, and well, you know all the boring details (Mom still loves Christmas way too much, although she wouldn't admit it directly).

Point is, they were angry I'd up and left Scarsdale and a good education to follow my dreams as a filmmaker. But Mom tried to make do with all that, and wanted to see me as much as possible. This time, they insisted on visiting _me_ instead of the other way around. Man, were they in for it.

But let's face it: I was whipped. The goody two-shoes kid for the most part. I still didn't want to disappoint my parents. I'd been raised that way.

"It's a free country, Cohen," Roger muttered, running a hand down Mimi's back, "I can mack it with whoever I want."

"I hope 'whoever I want' refers to _me_," Mimi joked, lifting a finger to lightly tap Roger's nose. God, they were so cheesie when they weren't fighting.

"Are you both even ready yet? They're gonna meet us at the Life. Look presentable, please." I adjusted my glasses nervously.

Mimi stood up, revealing her extremely short skirt and fishnet tights. "Sorry, Marky. I couldn't really find anything else to wear . . . This is the skirt Angel just made me, though, isn't it cute?"

She spun around once, and I sighed.

"Where'd you get those tights?" Roger asked, "I don't remember seeing them before."

Mimi ducked her head. "Um . . . Benny, actually. I got them from him a while back."

At the mention of Benny's name, Roger's stance tightened, and I gulped. Benny and Mimi sort of had a thing before she'd started dating Roger ("Really? I can't picture Benny with anyone besides Aunt Allison." "Yeah, Dad, Aunt A's got him _whipped_!" "She sure does, kids . . . "), and tensions rose when Roger found out from Benny himself on New Years'.

But things were okay between them now, except when Mimi ever mentioned Benny's name.

"Roger," Mimi continued, when he didn't say anything, "Let's just . . . get ready, okay? Mark, we'll meet you there."

I sighed again, putting on my scarf in an attempt to fight the late winter cold. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Kids, I will never forget the look on my mother's face when she and my dad walked into the Life Cafe.

Pan across the two tables that had been moved together: Angel and Collins had their arms around each other (Angel, by the way, was in full drag---a mixture of all shades of blue in her outfit, and streaks of sky blue in her hair), Mimi and Roger were glaring at each other from across the table, and Maureen was blabbing loudly to Joanne.

And there I was, standing. "Um . . . Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad."

Mom, wrapped in many coat layers and blinking at me behind thick rimmed glasses, lifted a pale hand to wave a little. She looked scared to death. Dad's eyes darted to-and-fro, trying to make sense of everyone sitting at the table.

Everyone immediately stopped talking as my parents moved toward us. Angel looked simply ecstatic, which worried me just a little. Angel was the sweetest person ever---but she was also a transvestite, which I was pretty sure my parents wouldn't be very accepting of.

This is why your mother and I have raised you the way we have, kids. No one should be judged by their appearance or lifestyle. No one.

Dad reached out and shook my hand. "Son," he said gruffly. I nodded. Of course, once Dad had initiated this action, my mother took hers. She flung her arms around me and kissed my cheeks, going on and on about how much she'd missed me.

I could hear Roger and Collins snickering behind me, and resisted the urge to flip them the bird.

"Um . . . ow, Mom, you're hugging too tight" --- she let go --- "Thanks. Um, you've met Roger and Maureen."

Maureen waved emphatically, giving a nod toward Dad and blowing him a kiss. Always the flirt. Roger lifted a hand and wasn't doing much to hide his pissed off demeanor. He was mad at Mimi, of course, but he also despised my parents. Mostly because my parents despised him.

"Hello," my mother said in her high-pitched voice.

"And . . . I've mentioned Collins before in my phone calls," I said, gesturing toward him. Collins nodded and smiled.

"And this is Angel, Joanne, and Mimi." I pointed to them respectively, and they waved, also. And then we all sat down as awkwardness ensued.

A waitress took our drink orders as Mom started a conversation. "So, Maureen . . . how is your acting career working out for you?"

Maureen took a sip of Coke. "Oh, just fabulously, thanks! I'm actually focusing a lot on performance art."

"Is that why you broke up with Mark?"

I almost spit out the soda I'd been drinking. Only my mother.

Maureen just laughed, of course. "Well, Mark and I were just looking for _different_ things." She looked at Joanne and gave her a wink. Joanne blushed and looked down at her hands.

"Mimi, what is it that _you_ do?" my mom inquired, and Mimi looked up from staring intently at the wood table.

"Um . . . I'm a _dancer_," she said slowly, which was of course an understatement. Mimi was a strip dancer. Quite a talented one, actually. ("Dad, what is _that_ supposed to mean?" "She was a good dancer; that's all I'm saying!")

Mom clapped her hands. "Oh, that's exciting! What type of dance do you do?"

Collins snorted, and Angel swatted his arm playfully. "Um . . . I guess I do all sorts," Mimi replied, receiving my glare that pretty much said _Don't go there, Mimi. Just don't go there._

"That's nice. Joe, dear, isn't that nice?" My dad nodded absently; he was staring intently at Angel. Uh-oh.

"Angel, is it?" he asked roughly, and I wanted to throw up. Angel clearly wasn't stupid; she picked up on his tone, and nodded with a smile. "Yes, that's me."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a drummer," she said without hesitation. Collins wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"A drummer," he repeated. He then turned to me. "What the hell is it with you and your _people_ here when it comes to getting jobs? Can none of you get off your lazy asses?"

"Joe---" Mom started, but he cut her off.

"Dad," I said, my voice rising a little, "This is what I chose to do. I've already told you this a thousand times."

"This is what we _all_ chose to do," Roger said through gritted teeth, and my palms started sweating and I knew what was coming, "And I've known since I met you two when I was 17 that you don't give a shit about what your kid wants. Well, guess what? He doesn't give a shit about what _you_ want. It's his life."

"Really?" Dad went on, "You _chose_ these lovely lives of yours with your wisdom? Is that why half of you have AIDS? Yeah, I've read the papers. It's the Gay Disease, the Druggie Disease. The disease people get for being _idiots_."

The table went completely quiet. And it was at that moment I realized if my own family didn't want to support what I did, then maybe my real family wasn't them at all, but the rest of the people sitting at the table around me.

"You know what, Dad?" I said, slowly standing, "I've been lying to you about a lot of things, for a really long time. But I think it's time you know what's really going on. I want to be a filmmaker and I don't want you standing in my way of that. I want people who will _support_ me." I gestured to everyone around me. "And these people do. Despite what you might think, they're an amazing group of people. Collins over there could teach you about every current philosophy that's sprung up all around the world." I looked to my mom. "I know you're uncomfortable with her, Mom, but Angel could probably make you a set of great outfits. Because, let's face it---you wear stuff that's from 1950."

Angel nodded solemnly. "I'm sensing green is your color."

"Yeah! Green's your damn color, Mom, okay?" I was on a roll. "Joanne over there is a lawyer. And she's _gay_. She's with Maureen, who dumped me, but we've moved past that. Yeah, she's gay. Yet she saves people's asses in court on a daily basis, as well as any straight lawyer could."

Mimi? She's an S&M dancer. You happy now?" My mother fainted right into my father's arms, but I continued speaking, "And Roger's my best friend and always will be, even though he's made some mistakes along the way. We all make mistakes. I made a mistake letting you both come here, because you don't understand what any of this means. And you don't want to." I sat back down, and Collins clapped me on the back.

Without a word, my father stormed away, helping my mother along with him as she incessantly muttered, "Oh dear, oh dear . . .". There was silence for a little while, until Angel let out a giggle.

"I'm sorry, Mark," she said through her laughter, "But your mother's outfit . . . it was just _awful_. A disgrace."

I chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, it really was."

"But did anyone else catch Joe's tie? Jesus, even _I_ don't wear those," Joanne muttered.

And then there was laughter. And more laughter. We all laughed so hard at the whole situation that had just taken place that there were tears trickling down our faces. We laughed like idiots. We ordered beer and laughed even more. Mimi and Roger held hands across the table---their petty argument had somehow been resolved. I smiled goofily.

When I thought about it, though, the only person I hadn't talked about all that much in my little speech to my dad was myself. I felt like my friends had so much to give and were so interesting and wonderful, and I . . . just wasn't. Who was I? What was I, and where did I fit in?

You reach a point in your life (sometimes a couple of points) where you're not really sure where you do fit in, kids. And what I have to say is this: keep trying to find yourself. No matter what.

You'll get by with a little help from your friends.


	9. Dine N' Dash

**A/N: Thanks for favoriting/reviewing! DISCLAIMER: Rent belongs to the late, great Jonathan Larson, not me.**

* * *

I like to think all these recollections are teaching you some lessons, kids. About being open-minded, about keeping your friends as close to you as possible . . . all that good stuff.

Another piece of advice: Always bring some amount of money, no matter how small, to a restaurant, no matter who's treating you to dinner. Just in case.

It was springtime. Things weren't going amazingly well, but we were all making do. Roger and Mimi were fighting on-and-off, as were Maureen and Joanne. Angel was getting sick a lot of the time, which worried Collins like crazy.

And yet, Angel was the first to call me to invite me out to dinner with Collins, Maureen and Joanne.

"Angel, are you sure you're up to it?" I'd said to her over the phone.

I could almost hear her rolling her eyes. "Please, Mark, honey. I'm fine. Meet us at Classic at 7, alright?" She hung up before I could say anything more.

Classic? As in the restaurant _across_ from the Life Cafe that was much more expensive and consisted of much higher quality food?

Psh. There was no chance in hell any of us could afford that. _Collins must've gotten a raise or something_.

Kids, there's a reason I always mention the Life Cafe. Not only was it our hang-out . . . but it was the only place that would have us after the incident I'm about to recall to you.

* * *

"This filet is _damn_ good," Collins said decidedly, digging his fork into his plate for another mouthful. Angel smiled at him. She had been too worn out that day to dress up in full drag, but she looked nice, nonetheless.

We were having a considerably good time, although the subject of Roger and Mimi's constant bickering had put a bit of a damper on the evening.

"I wish they'd just talk to each other," Joanne said, "I mean, Maureen and I talk things out when we need to."

Maureen slurped her drink obnoxiously. "Well, it's more that we _yell_ things out and then you use big-lawyer-words. But, for the most part you're right."

Joanne rolled her eyes and I chuckled. The night went on smoothly, until the waiter came over to give us our bill, placing it on the table.

No one moved to take it.

Awkwardly, I glanced at Angel, who giggled nervously. "Um . . . I guess we're gonna have to split this between all of us. Right?"

Joanne cleared her throat. "Maureen cleared me out with those new boots she bought, and I don't get paid 'til Friday, so . . . " She coughed, and Maureen batted her eyes innocently.

"Same here," Collins muttered, "Except, with Angel. Girl has too many shoes."

More awkward silence as everyone looked at me. "I . . . um . . . "

I think all I had on me was a quarter.

"Well, _shit_," Maureen cried, "Talk about misinterpretation. I thought _you_ guys had the money." She nodded to Angel and Collins.

"Well . . . um . . . not really," Angel confessed, "I mean, I know I used to always have some on me, but I can't go around killing dogs all the time, you know." ("Dad, you never really told us about that story." "Uh . . . For a thousand bucks Angel drummed outside an apartment window until a dog jumped out and . . . okay, back to the story I'm _trying_ to tell.")

"This sucks," I said, "What are we gonna do?"

I watched as a small smile began to etch itself into Collins' face. "I know what we can do."

Angel, who always seemed to know what her boyfriend was thinking, shook her head. "Oh, _no_ you don't, Thomas."

"Don't what?" Joanne asked.

"If none of us have nearly enough money to pay for all this," Collins said slowly, "I think we should make for an old-fashioned dine-and-dash."

Maureen leaned over to give Collins a high-five. "Awesome! I haven't done one of these in ages!"

"Oh, no, no, _no_. I am not getting myself involved in this," Angel said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. As nice as she was, Angel could be very firm and very stubborn.

Collins leaned over to kiss her cheek. "C'mon, baby. It'll be fun."

"It'll be fun until we get caught. I don't want to spend my night washing dishes!" she said, and I nodded in agreement.

"Mark, your opinion doesn't matter; you're a wuss," Maureen said flatly, and then proceeded to dodge the metal spoon I'd thrown at her.

Joanne sighed. "Angel's right. We could get in trouble for this. There's five of us and our bill came to 70 bucks. We can't just leave after not paying 70 bucks!"

I had done many a dine-and-dash at the Life Cafe, because, well, it was easy to do. You could order your food, eat it, and disappear before management even took notice. But here, at The Classic, the situation would obviously be much different. But did we really have a choice?

"Okay," I muttered, "Someone has to distract our waiter. Then we'll gradually pile out."

Angel brought a hand to her forehead, and I think she might have gotten one of those bad headaches that had been bothering her the last few weeks. "This is crazy," she said.

Collins helped her up. "Ang, there's no way we can pay for this, and I need to get you home, anyway. We have to do it."

I could tell that although Collins really did want to make sure Angel got some rest, the rebel in him was pretty damn excited for a big dine-and-dash.

"Fine," she gave in, and Collins' eyes lit up with excitement.

"Alright," he said, "I've got this one in the bag. Maureen, you go and distract the waiter. Flirt with him, or something." He ignored Joanne's look of disapproval as he went on: "Joanne, Mark, pretend you're heading to the bathroom, but as you head over there, make a quick exit. Angel and I will follow you, and I'll make sure the door's open for Maureen to make a run for it. Got it?"

Ah, Collins and his ever-churning mind.

So, that was what we did. I felt my heart racing as Joanne and I made our way to the bathroom and took a sharp right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maureen playing with her long brown hair and whispering something to the waiter. Clearly she was doing her job correctly.

Everything seemed to happen in slow-motion after that. We made our turn, and then we ran like hell.

I remember bumping into a young woman on my way out the door, colliding with her and almost dropping my shoulder-bag.

We made eye contact for a moment. And I remember she had the nicest eyes I'd ever seen. Bright green. And I remembered seeing her somewhere before . . . I just wasn't sure where.

As we all ran into the spring air, I noticed Angel was laughing, her arm linked with Collins'. I guessed she'd never made a dine-and-dash before. I was glad we all made it a successful first for her.

Semi-successful, anyway.

***  
"Maureen, pass me the soap."

"Pookie, I'm not done with it---"

"Ang, baby, be careful, dry your hands. I don't want you catching another cold."

"This dish is disgusting. Who actually eats like this?"

Yeah, kids, you guessed it: we got caught. And then got stuck washing dishes in the kitchen of The Classic Restaurant to pay for our dinner.

"Well," Angel sighed, leaning against Collins as she scrubbed a fork, "I hate to say I told you so, but we were classically screwed over by the Classic dine-and-dash."

Maureen stuck out her tongue. "This is gross. I wanna go home."

"I kind of wish Mimi and Roger were here," I couldn't help but say, "Roger would've appreciated making fun of us for this."

After a moment of silence, Collins said, ". . . Come on. One of you has to admit it was fun."

And it had been. Granted, now we were scrubbing the dishes of yuppies who could afford this kind of food on a daily basis if they wanted to, but still . . . it really had been fun.

None of us had a lot of money. None of us _wanted_ a lot of money. And that was alright. We all understood each other, and that was why we all stood there helping each other wash grime off of greasy utensils.

"So . . . did anyone see that pretty girl in the red dress when we were leaving?" Angel asked absently.

"Baby, I think we were more worried about, I dunno, _getting the hell out_ of the place," Collins replied jokingly.

"Still . . . she was totally making eyes at Mark after we left. Didn't you see?"

I blushed violently, and Maureen made kissing noises beside me. I nudged her arm to quiet her.

I hadn't noticed whether or not the girl was looking at me, either way.

I'd been too busy looking at her long after she'd walked away.

* * *

"That was Mom, wasn't it?" Angela said, "Mom has green eyes!"

Mark Cohen smirked a little. "That," he said, getting up, "is for you to find out soon enough."


	10. Z

**A/N: Enjoy! DISCLAIMER: As usual, aside from any original characters, I don't own _Rent._**

* * *

Angela Cohen stood beside her brother outside an apartment door, wringing her hands. Her father took a step from behind her and rapped on the door.

"You think he's home?" Andrew asked.

Mark nodded, his expression slightly more serious than usual. "Sometimes it takes him a while to get to the door."

Sure enough, the paint-chipped door opened to reveal a certain Thomas B. Collins standing on the other side of the threshold. His face was worn and tired-looking, his eyes a bit sunken in. But his expression immediately lit up when he saw his three visitors standing there.

"Well, I'll be _damned_," he said excitedly, a huge smile lighting up his face, "If it isn't the Cohens coming to visit. Do you know how long it's been?" His voice was gravelly and shaky, but the family chose to ignore it.

"Too long," Mark answered, and his kids watched as he pulled Collins into an embrace. "How are you?"

Collins pulled back and stepped aside for them to enter. "Oh, you know. Not great. But I'm trying to pick up jobs here and there. I miss teaching, you know?"

"Of course," replied Mark. He knew very well that in any normal situation, Collins would still be teaching in his mid-40's. But because AIDS caused his health to decline steadily over the years, he had to quit the rigorous NYU schedule.

Collins turned to the kids. "And how are my kiddies, huh? Angie, please don't tell me you're sixteen now."

Angela shrugged, smiling a little. "Sorry."

"Where does the time go?" Collins sighed, sinking into the couch in the living area they'd gathered in. "Andy? How's baseball been?"

"Great!" Andrew replied, "Dad's recorded some of my games on video if you want to see."

Collins nodded enthusiastically. "So, what brings you all here?"

Mark grinned a little. "I've been telling the kids about how I met their mom. You know, starting from Christmas back when."

Collins looked up from his leaned back position on the couch. "_That_ Christmas, huh?" He let out a couple of coughs, and Angela looked down at her hands. There was no denying that their Uncle Collins was even sicker than the last time they'd visited.

"So . . . " he went on, looking to the kids, "Your dad's finally told you about Angel, hasn't he?"

Andrew nodded. "Yeah. He---_she_ seemed really cool." Now that he knew a lot more about his father's past with his friends, he was able to piece a few things together. Like the picture in the corner of the living room that he'd never really noticed before in the times he visited his Uncle Collins. It was a picture of Angel.

Collins took a deep breath, leaning toward the coffee table to take a swig of a water bottle. "She was. She was a lot of wonderful things."

Mark put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "The kids wanted to come see you, now that I've been drudging up all these old memories."

"So did you tell them, then? About how Angel helped you meet the _love of your life_?" He emphasized the last few words purposefully. Even in his poor health, Collins was a joker.

"Ah. I hadn't gotten there yet."

Collins rolled his eyes, leaning back against the couch once more. "Kids, your dad's a filmmaker. He takes forever to tell stories. Be prepared to be sitting around listening to him _forever_."

Andrew and Angela laughed, and Mark's face reddened a little.

"Shut it, Collins. I'm there in the story, now. I figured you could help me start off."

Collins grinned. "Excellent. Well, it was the beginning of summer." His tone fell slightly. "And . . . Angel. She wasn't doing all that well." He trailed off, coughing again.

Mark decided to take up the storytelling from there, his hand still on Collins' shoulder. He continued: "Angel was making a lot of trips to the hospital. She'd stay a few days at a time. And of course, whenever we could, we all went to support her . . . "

* * *

"These walls are bland. I want to paint them bright purple," Angel said decidedly as she sat in a hospital bed. Collins lay beside her there, casually playing with her hair---her natural hair, of course. If there had been any way for Angel to gather enough energy to dress up in drag, even while in the hospital, she would have. But things just didn't happen that way.

I remember sitting in a chair near the door, chuckling. "Somehow I don't think they'd allow you to do that, Angel."

"Mm. Maybe. But it's nice to dream that this place _could_ have style."

Collins laughed, planting a kiss on her cheek. Joanne was also visiting Angel that day. She and Maureen were separated---again---as were Roger and Mimi. Things were very stressful amongst all of us at the time. I'm not going to lie to you, kids: Mimi and Roger, and Maureen and Joanne were having trust issues, and Angel was literally fighting for her life. It was tough.

It was this day in July, though, that things began to change for me, just a little. I didn't fully know it at the time, and wouldn't know it until a little later. But you wanted the full story, kids, so I'm going to tell it ("Dad, we never asked for you to tell us the story." "Aw, man, Mark. How much did you pay your kids to listen to you?" "Collins, man. Seriously. Let me finish.").

Joanne leaned back in the ratty hospital chair. "How are you feeling today, Angel?"

Always the spokesperson for optimism, Angel simply shrugged nonchalantly. "I've been better. But it's okay. Collins is taking good care of me." She smiled up at him, and he wrapped an arm tightly around her frail shoulders.

Just then, a nurse walked into the room to check on Angel's IV. And I immediately looked into those familiar green eyes once more.

"How are you doing, Angel, dear?" she asked.

In spite of myself, I stood up. Looking back on it, I probably seemed like the biggest idiot, standing up so abruptly that it made the chair I was sitting in screech loudly. The nurse turned to face me, and I recognized her as the girl I'd seen at the Classic. _I knew it!_ my mind yelled.

She really was quite pretty: her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She looked like she was in her mid-twenties, around my age or maybe a little younger.

"Is there something you need, sir?"

Angel giggled. "Z, have you met Mark?"

Z?

What kind of name is _Z_? I found myself blushing as this Z looked at me once more. "I don't think I have . . . but Mark, you look really familiar."

It was then that I saw a devilish grin spread over Angel's face. She took a deep breath. "Well, you two should get to know each other, then! Don't let me interrupt. Collins, go get something to eat in the cafeteria before I have to kill you; you never eat enough when we're here. And Joanne, sweetie, lighten up or go call Maureen and make up with her because _goodness_, if I have to see one more friend of mine walk into my room to visit looking like they're gonna cry, I'm gonna flip."

There was silence for a moment. And finally, I watched as Collins reluctantly got up to get some food and Joanne walked over to squeeze Angel's hand before leaving, as well. Z grabbed Angel's medical chart and walked over to me. "So, I guess Mr. Schunard over there has made a request," she said playfully, "Hi, Mark. I'm Z. At least, that's what everyone calls me."

I knew right off the bat that she seemed genuinely sweet. "It's nice to meet you, Z." She started to head out of the room and beckoned for me to follow. I looked back at Angel in desperation.

She winked and whispered, "Go get 'er, tiger!"

Blushing furiously, I ran to catch up with her.

"I really do think I've seen you somewhere," she said, placing the chart on one of the desks outside the room. When she finally looked at me again, something seemed to have gone off in her brain. "Aha! I've got it!"

I stuffed my hands in my pockets awkwardly. "Do you?"

"Yes. You're Mr. Dine-and-Dash!"

I didn't think I could blush any more than I already had been, but it turns out, I could. "Oh . . . oh man, that was _you_?" I obviously knew quite well it had been her I'd practically run down that night with Angel, Collins, Maureen and Joanne. I just didn't want to look like an idiot.

"Yep. I've never seen anyone running so fast in my life. I could tell it was a dine-and-dash. I mean, no one sprints out of a restaurant like that to practice running the Marathon."  
I chuckled. "Yeah. I'm sorry I bumped into you. I mean, this apology's a few months late, so I don't know if it counts . . . "

She smiled again. "It's alright. It made me remember you, at least. I go to the Classic sometimes, to hang out with some of my friends here at work. But usually I go to the Life Cafe . . . they make a mean miso soup."

"They really do," I agreed. We talked for about five minutes, about trivial things that I honestly don't remember, but the point is, Angel had pretty much set me up for what would eventually become a lasting friendship with that girl named Z with the pretty green eyes.

I'm eternally grateful to her for that.

* * *

"That doesn't make sense, Dad," Andrew said, "Mom's name doesn't begin with Z."

Mark smirked. "I know it doesn't. Did I say Z was your mother?" Angela rolled her eyes and Andrew groaned in exasperation.

Collins laughed, ruffling Andrew's hair playfully. "You gotta wait for the rest of the story, buddy."

"Ugh, you're right, Uncle Collins. Dad never shuts up."

Collins took another deep breath, and Mark sensed by the tired look in his eyes it was time to leave. "Well, kids, we have to get going. It's about a half hour ride home."

The kids got up and hugged Collins goodbye; Angela, in particular, gave him quite an enthusiastic one, always afraid that each hug she gave him might be the last.

Andrew could overhear the conversation his father was having with Collins as he waited by the door.

"How many times do we have to try to convince to you check into a hospital? Jo called me a few days ago saying she and Maureen have been bugging you about it for weeks."

A bitter laugh. "Mark, you know I won't do that. Whenever my time comes, I don't want to be hooked up to a bunch of machines willing me to stay. Besides . . . " Some shuffling as they embraced.

As he and Angela headed outside, Andrew could distinctly hear the last few words Collins said to his father that day:

"I know Angel will be waiting for me."


	11. The Best Friends Code

**A/N: Sorry for lack of updates! As usual I don't own Rent, just any OCs I may create.**

* * *

Mark Cohen walked through the apartment door, having just left a quite lengthy meeting concerning the direction of his latest documentary project. He smiled as Angela came into the room to greet him:

"Hey, Dad, dinner's on the table; Mom made it before she went to work, I'm gonna go upstairs to the computer, bye."

Ah, teenagers.

He saw his son, Andrew, relaxing on the couch in the living room. "Hey, Andy."

"Hi."

"You finish your homework?"

" . . . Possibly."

"_Andrew_."

"Okay, okay; I'm on it."

Mark chuckled, taking off his coat and heading to the hallway closet to hang it up. As he opened the closet door, his attention immediately wandered to the various clothing items that had fallen onto the dusty floor since that morning when he grabbed his coat for work.

Again, teenagers. Always with the big messes.

Mark sighed, leaning down to pick up various hats and raincoats, and that was when he saw it, scrunched up in the corner of the closet, dust particles clinging to its material: his blue and white scarf.

A small smile beginning to show in his features, Mark picked up the scarf, brushing some of the dust away. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worn it. But he'd had it for many, _many _years, and never had the heart to throw it away.

"Ew, Dad, what is that?" Mark closed his eyes and sighed. It would make sense that his kids wouldn't be able to appreciate all the memories held in each thread of his little scarf. He turned to face Angela, who was chugging a glass of milk before her gymnastics session in an hour.

"Haven't you seen this before, Angie?"

"Well, sure. In old pictures of you and Mom. But I didn't know you still _had_ it. And look at how dirty it is!"

"I've had this scarf for years," Mark mused, shuffling over to sit at the kitchen table, "It's been on a crazy journey. Your Aunt Cindy always used to make fun of it."

"Aunt Cindy makes fun of everyone," was the voice of Andrew as he entered the room.

"True. She inherited your grandmother's cheekiness," Mark replied with a roll of his eyes, "Anyway, this scarf meant a lot to me. I even violated the Best Friends Code because of it."

"The _what_?" Angela asked, clearly curious.

"Oh, you know. I mentioned it to you before, a while back. It's an unofficial set of rules my friends and I made up."

"Like, how you can't date your best friend's ex?" Angela asked.

Mark leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "It's a little like that, yeah. In fact, this scarf was the reason the Code was brought up in the first place . . . "

I had just turned 19, and my mother had sent me a scarf for my birthday. She'd always been paranoid when it came to my health, and New York winters showed no mercy.

Considering I wasn't exactly thriving with money, I appreciated the gift, and wore the scarf religiously. It kept me warm when it was cold practically everywhere---especially inside the loft where we all lived---and I was grateful for that. I wore it everywhere. It became part of me ("That's so cheesie, Dad!"); a part of my personality.

So when I had accidentally spilled hot coffee all over the aforementioned scarf one day, I was determined to do whatever was in my power to fix it. Everything I was doing at home wasn't working, and I refused to walk around with a gigantic stain on my precious scarf.

The closest specialty cleanser was a few blocks away, and so I knew I'd have to take my bike for a bit of a ride. The problem was, Roger was playing a show with his band at one of the local clubs, and naturally, I was expected to go.

Why? Because it was part of the unquestionable Best Friends Code. I didn't know this at the time.

* * *

"Rog," I said as I walked through the loft door briskly, rushing around in order to make it before the cleansers' closed, "I'm gonna have to miss your show tonight. I need to get to this place before it closes, and you know the owner of that club hates me and doesn't let me in after the show starts, like last time---"

Roger cleared his throat, interrupting me. I finally looked over at him where he was standing outside his small bedroom, his electric guitar in hand. "Well, well. We have a dilemma, don't we?"

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I chose to ignore him altogether. Then Collins, who was at the time commuting from college, let out a bellow of a laugh as he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. "I don't think he gets it, Rog. You might have to say something."

Now I was _really_ confused. "Alright, what the hell's going on?" I was exasperated, my scarf was stained and smelled like old coffee, and I was a bit, well, pissed off.

"You do realize, Mark," said Roger, casually walking up behind me to place a hand on my shoulder, "that you're violating the Best Friends Code by missing my show. Right?"

"The what, now?" I muttered, only half-listening.

"The Best Friends Code. Every group of friends has one. And you're breaking the rules. Right, Collins?"

"Damn straight."

I sighed. "Okay. You have my attention. What, oh _what_, Roger, is the Best Friends Code?"

"I'm glad you asked, my friend." Roger grabbed a cigarette from his back pocket, lighting it. He then began to speak in a mock-British accent as Collins pretended to play the violin behind him. "See, the Best Friends Code defines why, and how, best friends exist. I like to consider myself your best friend, Mark, and I consider you and Collins and Maureen and Benny to be mine. Are you with me this far?"

"Uh-huh. Hurry up. They close at 7---"

"The Best Friends Code is no joke, Mark," Collins said, a look of faux seriousness in his eyes, "It is the root of friendship. It is---"

"Just tell me what the hell I'm violating and then I can get my scarf cleaned," I interjected. Roger and Collins exchanged a look of horror.

"See, the fact that you are going back on a commitment to see my show at this very moment, Mark, only proves further that you have violated the Code. Because according to the Code, you can't back out on your best friend last-minute, especially if you're backing out of your best friend's breakthrough rock concert that will define a music generation."

"You made that last part up, Rog."

"Whatever. Point is, that's one of the rules of the Code. Collins, would you like to go on to explain the others while I go get ready?"

"Sure thing." Collins clasped my shoulder. "Man, the Code is serious business. Like, I could be doing a lot of course work right now, but I'm going to see Roger's show. Because he's my best friend. You have taken it upon yourself, unfortunately, to make an _inanimate object_"---he gestured toward the scarf--- "a priority. Which leads to another rule: the best friend is _always_ the priority. Not the girlfriend, not the parents, not the pet goldfish, not the damn scarf. Speaking of girlfriends, there's a whole rule about not letting your best friend's girlfriend cheat on him with you. I would make you a diagram, but we're short on time---"

"Collins, seriously? You're studying philosophy. You're a smart guy. You don't honestly believe this 'Best Friends Code', do you?"

Collins looked almost sad by my question. "Of course I do. Wholeheartedly."

I just looked at him for a moment, then to Roger's closed door. And then I left the apartment.

The problem was, kids, at the time I thought I was on top of the world. At 19, I thought I could become a renown filmmaker in a matter of a couple of years. Life doesn't work that way. You have to make a commitment; you have to work for what you want.

I was 19 and stupid and still spoiled by my parents even though they were miles away, and took everything---including my friends---for granted.

But as I stood in line at the cleansers', glancing at my watch knowing Roger's show was about to start (his first in a while), it suddenly hit me as to what the Best Friends Code truly was.

Collins and Roger had probably made it all up on the spot. I wouldn't be surprised if they had, although I never did ask them. It's something to ask your Uncle Collins at some point.

But the Code wasn't something that necessarily needed to be spoken of. It was just a representation of everyday things you take for granted when it comes to the people you're close to in your life.

Like how Roger used to pick up a coffee every single day for Collins and me after band practice, despite his grumbling about it. Or how I would go all the way back downstairs to get the mail for him when he forgot to. Or, later on, when I would nag him about taking his AZT no matter how much he yelled at me because I wanted him to take care of himself. Or how Collins would critique my short films, however harshly, and turn out to be the greatest and most honest "fan" of my early work. Little things like that. That's the Best Friends Code.

And I was violating the Best Friends Code because of a damn scarf.

I remember running as fast as my legs would carry me out of the Specialty Cleansers', and to Roger's show.

After that, the rules of the Code were never spoken about again. They didn't need to be.

* * *

"But did you get the scarf cleaned? I mean, it didn't seem like a big deal to miss one show of Roger's, right?" Angela asked, picking up her gymnastics bag.

Mark shrugged. "That wasn't the point. I did get the scarf cleaned eventually. Point is, as I've been telling you over and over, kids: Never take the people in your life for granted. You don't know when you might lose them."


	12. Namesake

**A/N: Sad chapter ahead, everyone. Thanks for adding this story to your alert lists, and for reviewing. Much appreciated! DISCLAIMER: I don't own RENT. You all know this.**

* * *

On October 27th, 1990, Angel Dumott Schunard passed away.

Ironically enough, she succumbed to the AIDS virus she'd been battling for years just before Halloween, which was her favorite holiday.

This is why I always tell you, kids, to cherish what you have. I loved Angel very much; she was one of my closest friends. And she was the love of your Uncle Collins' life, so you can imagine how much it broke him.

I spent a lot of time at the loft on the chilly morning of Halloween prior to Angel's funeral, trying to figure out what to say at the eulogy. I wanted to say something that would reflect her personality, and how great of a person she was.

I'd never been friends with a drag queen, and I'm a bit socially awkward to begin with ("Yeah, you are, Dad. At least you admit it."), so when we first met I had a hard time talking with Angel. It was never that I didn't accept who she was-I just had never met anyone like her before. But she always had a smile on her face no matter what, and I was able to welcome her into the fold of our little group of friends quite easily. She accepted my awkward demeanor, and I accepted her always-lively-and-happy-go-lucky disposition. When I look back on it, I realize how lucky I was to have someone like her to bring out the best in me and the rest of us. I wanted to honor her.

At the funeral, I tried not to look at Collins' tear-stained face as I stood in front of the people sitting in the pews at the local church. I took a deep breath, having just listened to Mimi's speech about Angel, and hoping I could do Angel as much justice as Mimi just had. I cleared my throat.

"And then there was this time he walked up to this group of tourists . . . "

* * *

"It's such a nice day today, babe, don't you think?" was Angel's perky voice. Her arm linked with Collins', she turned a little to face me as I walked behind them. "Marky, you're walking so slowly, dear. I'm the one wearing heels!"

I chuckled and jogged a little to catch up. "Sorry. I was trying to film a homeless man on that bench over there; it was some great footage . . . "

Collins rolled his eyes. "Do you ever put that damn camera down, man?"

"Not really, no," I answered with a smirk, "Why, are you jealous you haven't had your daily cameo?"

Angel giggled, and we kept walking. I raised an eyebrow as Angel suddenly stopped in her tracks, dragging Collins with her as he had been in mid-movement.

"Ang? What is it?"

Angel bit her lip nodding to a group of people standing a few feet away. "They look lost," she commented. I followed her gaze to find that, yes, they did look very lost. It was a family of five, by the looks of it. Three red-headed kids and two very confused parents staring at a map. Tourists. Typical.

Before Collins or I could do anything else, Angel took it upon herself to skip over to the family. I exchanged an amused glance with Collins before following her lead.

"Hi!" she chirped, and all five of the tourists looked to her. "I'm Angel! It looks to me like you're a little lost, and I was wondering if maybe you wanted some help."

The parents honestly looked flabbergasted. I noticed Collins' eyebrows furrow slightly. I figured he might be afraid that these tourists would insult Angel in some way because she was different; sadly, that kind of thing happened all too often.

But instead, the man and the woman continued to stare, bewildered, at Angel. Their expressions clearly revealed that they weren't mad, or disgusted-just confused.

So, Angel, being the persistent spirit she always was, tried again: "Is there anyplace in particular you're trying to find?"

The lady coughed, and reached down to hold her daughter's hand. "We were, uh, looking for Times Square." She had some kind of Irish or Scottish accent; I wasn't sure.

Angel's eyes widened. "Oh, sweetheart. You're in the wrong area of Manhattan." I almost laughed, and Collins smiled a little. "This is Alphabet City. But if you like, we can show you out of here, and we can help you to get there in no time!"

Collins shook his head. I wondered how we'd managed to get roped into showing some tourists how to get to 8th Avenue.

But as Angel began to walk and talk with these tourists (who now looked just a bit scared-New York can be scary when you don't know where you're going; I'll give them that), I couldn't help but notice how patient she was.

"This is my boyfriend Collins. And this is our friend, Mark," she chatted, and Collins and I both waved awkwardly.

One of the children, who looked the youngest, waved his arms. "Mummy, I'm tired!" he whined.

Angel looked down at the boy. "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Connor."

"Connor! That's a nice name! Honey-" she looked to Collins, "-could you help Mr. McMann with the map he's looking at, please?"

Collins sighed. "Sure, Angel."

"Now, then. Connor, do you like to sing? When I'm tired or not feeling well or bored, I sing to pass the time."

Connor shrugged his shoulders. And then Angel did a remarkable thing. She began to sing, as loudly and as lovely as she could, as we were wandering away from Avenue C. People stared, but kids, if there's anything you should know about Angel from what I told you, it's that she didn't care what people thought.

"_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine_

_You make me happy when skies are gray_

_You'll never know, dear, how much I love you_

_Please don't take my sunshine away_!"

It's a pretty universal song. I mean, who _doesn't_ know it? Naturally, Connor began to sing along. The other two kids clapped their hands, and I literally watched all this play out as I walked, wondering how one person could be so full of life.

The family even wanted to take a picture with her when they were able to find their way. Of course, Angel happily obliged to that, too.

Then she helped them to find their way to the Circle Line boat tours, without hesitation.

I remember looking to Collins whose eyes were simply glowing as he gazed at Angel. I couldn't help but be amazed, too.

After we were all practically dragging our feet back home, Angel sighed contentedly. "Well, that was fun. Wasn't it?"

Collins and I exchanged yet another look. Had it really been all that fun spending a day full with whiny kids and running around 42nd street until our legs were practically falling off? Not so much.

But Collins smiled anyway. "Yeah, baby. It was."

Angel leaned her head against his shoulder, and absently reached out to fling an arm around my shoulders. And I didn't awkwardly pull away like I usually did with a goofy grin or a chuckle.

I had never in all my life known someone with so much love to give.

I at least owed her a sign that said I appreciated it.

We walked back the dimly lit Alphabet City, our home, the three of us. And I hadn't felt so moved, so inspired, in a very long time. Angel would remain an inspiration to me from then on.

* * *

Mark Cohen looked up from staring at his hands to look at his kids. Andrew was biting his lip, glancing up at the ceiling every so often. Angela had tears in her eyes.

"Dad," she said quietly, "Angel seemed . . . so special."

"She was," Mark agreed. He leaned over to clasp his daughter's knee. "She would've loved to meet the both of you." He took a deep breath. "She was a genuinely good spirit. Someone like that is hard to find. Angel was a positive influence on pretty much everyone she met. And that . . . " He looked his daughter square in the eyes, "is why we named you after her, Angela."

Through her tears, Angela smiled, and Mark was more sure than ever about telling his children these stories. He wanted them to be carried on for as long as possible.  
Because his friends, and people like Angel, did not deserve to be forgotten.


	13. I Hear You

**A/N: Hey guys. Letting you know I changed my username, don't be alarmed. xD Enjoy this chapter. DISCLAIMER: Don't own Rent. Entertainment purposes only, you know the drill.**

* * *

Things started to get very bad for a while after Angel's death. Mimi and Roger split up again after Mimi began having problems with drugs. Roger still had suspicions about her and Benny.

Speaking of Benny, I don't want you to think badly of him, kids. He went back on his word many a time, and caused a lot of problems between Roger and Mimi. But he was a good guy, and I realized this at Angel's funeral. We were as broke as ever but he came through for us when we least expected him to. He paid the undertaker after Angel's funeral.

"I think it's only fair to tell you," was Collins' gravelly voice in the cemetary, "that you just paid for the funeral of the person who killed your dog."

"I know. I always hated that dog."

A bit of the friend Roger, Collins, Maureen and I used to know shone through at that moment.

And then Roger moved to Santa Fe to get away from everything, and I was pretty much alone. Those times weren't the best.

And it's funny, kids, who you find to be there for you when everything else is falling apart.

I had just stormed away from the set of Buzzline. Yes, kids, I got a job at Buzzline News Show as a newscaster, and it was the worst job I'd ever had in my life.

My boss was Alexi Darling. She was a hyperactive, spazzy little thing; she was maybe five feet tall but her shrill voice could crack a hundred walls of glass at a time. She'd offered me a job at Buzzline many times before, as she'd seen my work covering the riot at Maureen's performance way back on that fateful Christmas. I finally gave into her pressure because, well, I needed the money. Roger was gone. Collins was working. Mimi was who knew where, and Maureen and Joanne had their own problems to worry about.

"Marky!" she called as I tried desperately to avoid her at the current news site. I glanced desperately at Jay, the _other_ camera man (I both filmed and shared the stories I was assigned because the people at Buzzline liked my "raw style". I look back on it now and realize they were just telling me a load of crap). Not even the seemingly insignificant crew members liked Alexi.

I gritted my teeth and turned around. "Yes, Alexi?"

Alexi flipped some of her jet black hair behind her ear. "I don't recall you finishing the news piece on this new deli that just opened! It's the only deli for _dogs_ in the city!"

A dog deli? _This_ is where my career was headed? I wanted to vomit. "Um, honestly, Alexi, I don't think you should've assigned me this story."

"Well, why _not_?" she asked, her eyes wide as if a dog deli was the greatest thing since sliced bread to be talking about on local television, "I told you, Marky, dear, you'll be able to talk about what _you_ want to as you move up in this business." And then she started rambling on and on like usual, and, also like usual, I tuned her out.

I couldn't do this anymore. I walked away as she continued to babble, clenching my fists, going to the only place I could find quiet those days. Angel's grave.

We hadn't been able to afford more than a simple headstone. It just read her name. But as I reached out to touch the cold gray stone, I figured words carved into it wouldn't mean much. This ugly rock very much underrepresented Angel. It was almost an insult.

I'd go there sometimes to get away. Sometimes I'd accompany Collins (he visited her every chance he could), but mostly I was on my own.

"Hi, Angel," I said quietly, even though I knew I wouldn't receive a reply, "How you doing up there? It's not so great down here. We all miss you." I bit my lip. "I hate my job. I just want to work on my film. You were part of what inspired it. All my friends were. And I have so much great footage I want to put together, as a tribute, you know?"

"Then why don't you use it?" said a voice. I froze, my mouth slightly agape. Slowly, I looked behind me to find none other than Z from the hospital looking at me. "Mark. Remember me?"

I nodded hesitantly. "Yeah, um, hi. You're Z. The nurse."

"The _almost_-nurse," she corrected, smiling a little, "I was working at that hospital as an intern. I can't wait to get on my feet, though, and have a career, you know? But you don't seem to be very happy with yours." Her green eyes were penetrating me with curiosity.

I shrugged my shoulders. "No . . . no, I'm really not."

"Then why do you stay with it? What do you really want to do?"

I couldn't understand why she was asking me all these nosy questions. But for some reason, I wanted to answer them. Because she seemed like the kind of person who genuinely cared about people. Nursing was the right profession for her, I thought. "I . .. I just need the money. I don't know what else to do."

"Well," she said, walking closer to me to stand beside me at the grave, "you seem to have a tight-knit group of friends. Your friend, um, Roger, right?" -I nod- "Has he been able to help out?"

"He left. Moved to Santa Fe. It's kind of a long story." I took a deep breath. "You remembered my name. And his, too. I think I only met you once."

Z nodded. "That's true. But Angel used to talk about all of you everyday. I practically know you all, now," she said, and there was a hint of sadness in her voice.

I said nothing, staring down at the engraving of Angel's name. Then she whispered, "I guess this is something we have in common."

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Angel." Z knelt down at Angel's grave, touching the stone tenderly.

"You . . . you came to visit him, too?" I asked, and she nodded in reply.

"I got to know Angel really well during my internship. And h-she was the sweetest person I think I've ever met. She was lying there, sick. Dying. And yet she'd ask me everyday how I was doing, how things were going with my boyfriend at the time . . . "

"At the time?" I blurted, and then I realized it must have been quite a personal question, because those green eyes were no longer looking into mine after I asked it.

She chuckled sourly. "Yeah. At the time. But I find that you shouldn't stick with someone, or something, that brings you down all the time, you know? He brought me down. He said I was focusing too much on work, on this job, instead of spending time with him. You know, the clingy type."

I nodded in understanding, and she went on: "I didn't want to be tied down anymore, and Angel said I should let him go. So I did. I never got the chance to tell her . . . "

Her eyes welled up with tears, and I went into full panic mode. I was never good with crying people. "Um . . . hey. Hey, don't cry."

I reached out and awkwardly placed my hand on her shoulder. She leaned a little against me. And we stood there for a while, saying nothing at all. At first I didn't know why I was letting this girl, whom I barely knew, so far into my life and into what I was feeling. Or why she was letting me into hers. But there was something in the air around me that told me it was okay to let her in.

Finally, she spoke again: "You shouldn't let your job bring you down the way I've been brought down by my ex." It was a blunt statement, but I couldn't help but feel she was right, "If this isn't what you want to do with your life, Mark, then steer it in the right direction before it's too late. From what I've seen, and from what Angel's told me about you . . . " She sighed. "You're too good of a person to be deprived of what you really want in life."

She placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezed it, and turned to walk away.

And it was then, kids, when I understood perfectly what I had to do.

A little while after Z had gone, I sprinted out of the cemetary to the closest pay phone. _Angel_, I thought, _I hear you. I know what you've been trying to do, why you brought me and Z to you at the same time. I hear you, I promise._

I dialed a number, my hands pale and shaky because of the cold: "Alexi," I practically shouted into the phone, "It's Mark. You can call me a hypocrite, but I need to finish my own film, and I can't keep putting it off any longer. I quit!"

I hung up the phone before Alexi's squeaky voice could muster a reply. A sense of freedom washed over me as I jogged over to my bike and pedaled back to the loft. I had a film to finish.

There was a message waiting for me on the answering machine when I got home. I pressed the "play" button, waiting for that sickening feeling to come over me as I heard Roger's voice with mine on the voice mail before the beep: "SPEEEEEEAK!" Each time I heard it, I missed my best friend more than ever.

Which is why I was very, very happily surprised when I heard who'd left a message:

"_Mark. Hey. It's me._" Roger? It couldn't be. I hadn't heard from him in weeks. I'd thought he'd given up on all of us a while ago. "_Listen . . . I screwed up. I made a huge mistake by leaving. And . . . I'm sorry, alright? I won't say it again, so hear me out. I'm sorry._"

Pause, some shuffling, a sigh.

"_Mimi needs me. And I know you do, too, man, and so do the rest of them. And I was too much of a jerk to see it, so. Yeah. That's it._"

One of Roger's characteristic, cocky sniffs to remind me that yes, he was apologizing for something but no, it didn't make him any less manly. And then:

"_Just . . . wait. Wait, okay? I'm coming home._" _Beep_.

I flopped down onto the couch, my heart racing because Roger was coming home, because Angel had helped me realize something even though she wasn't even alive anymore, and because that pretty girl with the green eyes had brought out something in myself I didn't think I had left: hope.

A last piece of advice for today, kids: never give up following your dreams, no matter how much it hurts, or how much of a struggle it might turn out to be. Don't just _settle_ with a life you're unhappy with. Go for it, and maybe you'll end up farther along the path to success than you ever thought possible.


	14. But Who, Mark, Are You?

**A/N: Sorry for delayed updates! Here you go. DISCLAIMER: Don't own RENT, only own OC's.**

* * *

Here is Christmas of 1990 in a nutshell: It was much different than that of 1989. Yes, your Uncle Roger did come home. And so did Mimi. But she was sick. Very, very sick.

As I stood there with Collins and Maureen and Joanne, staring at my shoes trying not to notice Roger's voice crack as he sang his song to her as she lay dying, I wondered about the events that had transpired in that year. Relationships had been made and lost. I'd discovered what it meant to be truly passionate about something, as well as to have true friends and live in the moment.

But had I really 'lived in the moment'? What had changed for me? I realized that I had isolated myself even when I was surrounded by my friends. And that wasn't good.

So as I looked up and saw Mimi's eyes flutter closed as she lay in Roger's arms, and tried as hard as I could not to break down, I wondered.

And then a miracle happened. Kids, neither your mother or I have ever lied to you or put false expectations in your minds. But what happened on Christmas Eve of 1990 will always be a miracle to me.

Roger sang the song he'd been struggling to write since April's death. And Mimi woke up.

"She's back!" Maureen cried, I felt my heart beating faster than ever.

That Christmas had been just as much as celebration of life as the one before it. I realized then how important life was, how it needed to be treasured. It took a year, kids; a whole year before I truly understood that.

I hope that these stories have been helping you to understand long before I did.

Mimi, in her disheveled clothes and matted hair, was glowing. She and Roger looked at me, and I hooked up my projector and put on the film I'd been working on all year.

Collins clasped my shoulder as he saw footage of him and Angel and all of us, laughing and living. Maureen and Joanne held hands. And Christmas of 1990 only validated what we'd all learned and loved and lost over the course of that past year.

I've talked a lot about my friends in all these stories, and what I neglected to pay attention to at the time was where, exactly, _my_ life was going. When 1991 rolled around, everything changed for me.

* * *

Two weeks after Christmas, Mimi got sick again. And this time, she didn't bounce back.

I remember seeing her frail frame in the hospital bed, looking just like Angel had, knowing it was close to the end.

Roger sat by her, absently strumming some notes on his guitar. His eyes were bloodshot and he hadn't been sleeping much. And God knew he hadn't been worrying about taking his own AZT to manage his disease when he was worrying about Mimi's.

"Rog," Mimi whispered hoarsely, and Roger looked up.

"Yeah, Mimi?"

"You know I love you, right?"

The question was an innocent one, full of emotion. I quickly shot my gaze down to my feet, feeling awkward. Clearly this was a moment between them that I was ruining.

I exited the room, my palms sweating. I couldn't watch another one of my friends die. I just _couldn't_.

As I was walking, I bumped into none other than Z. She looked startled at first, but then recognized me. "Mark! Hey."

I stuffed my hands in my jacket pocket. "Hi, Z. How's it going?"

"Ah, well, it goes," she replied with a wave of her hand, "You were running pretty fast there. You alright?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm, uh, fine," I muttered.

"I haven't seen you look this flushed since the Valentine's Day incident."

I gaped at her for a moment. "The . . . the what?"

She giggled. "I _knew_ I'd seen you somewhere before I first ran into you at the Classic. You were at the Life Cafe, trying to talk your friend Joanne off dancing on the table."

I froze as the memory came flooding back to me. Angel. Collins. Me. Laughing like idiots at a drunk Joanne Jefferson.

And in spite of myself, I burst into laughter. I sank into a chair outside Mimi's' room, chuckling, and she sat next to me. "You were there? That's crazy. I can't believe you remembered that." ("You said Mom was at the Life when that happened, right?" "Yes, I did, Andy." "That doesn't make sense. Mom's name doesn't begin with Z! Haven't we been through this?" "The story's not over, kids . . . ")

"Mmhm. It dawned on me the other day. I see Joanne and Maureen a lot, visiting here. Mimi isn't doing so well, is she?"

My laughter faltered instantly at this change of subject. "Well . . . no. She's not," I said.

And Z put a hand on my shoulder. "You wanna change the subject?"

I really did, actually. So I nodded. "That would be good," I said, "Let's talk about . . . you. I don't think I know much about you."

She smiled. "Okay. Then you can tell me about you."

"You first."

"If you insist," she said playfully, "I have a few minutes left of my break." She sighed. "Well, I was born in New Haven, Connecticut. I was a spoiled brat when I was a kid."

"Oh, God. Me too."

And we talked like we'd been friends for years, and for a moment, I forgot about all the bad things in the world. It was just me and Z and things were simple.

* * *

Mimi died on a cold January evening. I can still remember the last thing she said to me: _Mark, you're such a geek! Stop hiding behind that camera and go get me and Roger a water bottle. Love you!_

When I came back she was gone. I think she planned it that way.

Her funeral was small. I think she planned that, too. Mimi was such a charismatic, bright spirit. I think she deserved more than what we could afford for her at the time.

Collins came from NYU to the funeral, with his new boyfriend, Justin. Justin was sweet, but it was clearly evident that Collins still very much missed Angel.

I remember sitting in the pew next to Joanne, staring at my hands. Kids, your Aunt Joanne is a wise, strong person. This only proves it further.

"Joanne," I muttered, fully showing how distraught I was, "What are we doing here again?" The old chapel only brought back sad memories for me, and I'm sure for everyone else.

She reached out to squeeze my hand. "We're here for the reason we always do the things we do as a group, Mark. We're here for our friends. There shouldn't be any more of a reason than that. Mimi deserves our being here."

She was damn right. I was there for my friends. And out of all of them, I was most worried for Roger.

* * *

"Rog. Rog, please talk to me."

"Can you leave me alone, Cohen? I put my girlfriend in the ground today," was Roger's snappy reply from the other side of his closed door.

"Did you take your AZT?" I pressed on.

"Screw you."

"_Roger_. I can't let you do this again. I can't let this be like when you lost April-"

Suddenly the door burst open, and Roger seemed to tower over me in anger. "Mark. Oh, hell, Mark . . . " He pushed past me, and I turned to face him, confused.

"What?"

He laughed bitterly. "If anything, Mimi taught me how to live. It's gonna be hell without her, Mark, but if there's anything I've learned in the last couple of years, it's how to _live_ despite the shit _life_ throws at you. It'll take time. But I'm not going to crawl into a hole again."

I was happy to hear this, but still couldn't understand what he was getting to. I let him go on:

"_You_ are trying to counsel _me_, Mark? _Me_?" he cried, shaking his head, "You made your film about us, showing the importance of life and love and friendship and all that. That's great. But where are _you_, Mark? You learned how to live. But you seemed to have forgotten it all. If there's anyone who needs a damn talking to, it's you." He finished with a deep breath. "I don't even know who you are anymore, man."

"We've talked about this, Roger," I said quietly. And we had. Before he moved to Santa Fe. But this time, I had the sickening realization that Roger was completely right.

He, who had lost his love to AIDS only days before, still understood what it meant to live. And I didn't.

"Damn right we have," Roger spat, "And I'm gonna keep living my life. For Mimi, for Angel. Hell, for _you_. For everyone. I'm not letting this disease screw me up any more than it has.

You're _not_ sick, Mark, and I know that more often that not, _that's_ what's making you crazy. But honestly, man . . . " He picked up his guitar from the corner of the room. "You need help. Until you're willing to stop drowning in _other_ people's lives, start focusing on your own."

He slammed the door again.

* * *

Eyebrows furrowed, Mark Cohen let the memory resonate in his mind as he finished speaking.

His kids looked at him wearing forlorn expressions.

"This can't be how it all ends. It's not, right?" Angela asked, "Everyone's so sad. And you haven't even met Mom at this part yet, have you?"

Mark leaned back in his chair, and opened his mouth to speak again.


	15. Matchmaker, Matchmaker

**A/N: Glad a lot of you are still discovering this story! One more chapter remains after this one. I appreciate those of you who have reviewed and followed this story!**

* * *

The end of February, kids:

"Okay, Mark, that's _it_. I need to play matchmaker. Or Cupid, whatever you prefer. All I know is, I've got some arrows and your ass needs pinching," Maureen said decidedly.

Joanne and I both looked up from our plates of spaghetti at that last comment, and Collins let out a rumble of a chuckle. We were at the Life Cafe as usual, and Valentine's Day was once again approaching. I guessed this was why Maureen was honing in on her matchmaking, er, talents.

I shook my head. "I'm not gonna let my ex-girlfriend match me up with someone I don't know. That would be stupid, albeit extremely awkward."

Maureen raised her eyebrows. "Stop using big words like you're so smart and listen to me. When was the last time you dated someone? Oh, wait, let me answer that-not since _me_!"

Joanne rolled her eyes, and opened her mouth to say something when her girlfriend cut her off: "And anyway, you don't have a choice in the matter. Tomorrow night at 7, you're going to meet my friend Beth from Lesbian Rights Group."

I blinked stupidly, and Collins, having been in the middle of sipping his beer, almost choked. "Maureen . . . somehow I don't think that would work out." He nudged my arm and I glared at him.

Maureen pursed her lips. "Um, just because she goes to the group doesn't mean she's gay, Collins. God. Way to generalize. Anyway, she's cute, Mark, and she goes to the meetings with her sister. You'd like her. And again-I'm not giving you a choice."

I'd never wanted to strangle Maureen so much in my life.

Well, not since she'd dumped me, anyway.

* * *

"Mom's name is Beth!" Andrew said proudly, "That's it, then. You met mom through Aunt Maureen. Right?"

Mark shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not."

Angela sighed. "Dad, you can't deny it this time. Beth is Mom. Right?"

"You'll see . . . "

* * *

Despite my inner turmoil of whether to go on this blind date, I decided to go through with it. I figured Roger would have my head if I didn't.

Some days he just wouldn't speak to me; I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. Roger was angry that I wasn't taking advantage of the life I'd been given. Of course there was irony in that, since we'd started out the other way around.

I showed up in the best outfit I owned: a blazer and khaki pants. I'd just come from a job interview for an up-and-coming film project, and my mind was all over the place.

I found her sitting at a little table in the corner of the restaurant, and my _God_, was she beautiful. She had long, curly blonde hair that cascaded down her back, big green eyes, and a warm smile.

I shuffled to the table awkwardly. "Um, hi. I'm Mark. And you must be Beth?"

Beth nodded. "It's so good to meet you! Maureen's told me a lot about you."

"Has she? She couldn't have told you anything good, then," I said with a small laugh, and she joined in.

I sat down, and then we started talking. Well . . . _she_ started talking.

I'd never met a more talkative person in my life (and knowing your Aunt Maureen, that's definitely saying something). All I could do was stare in amazement as she babbled on and on about her career as a fitness instructor, her lesbian sister, her dog Chi Chi, and every other topic under the sun. It was like listening to a tape of an autobiography.

And then something _beyond_ awkward occurred, kids. Z showed up.

I remember looking beyond Beth to see Z walking into the restaurant with a few of what looked like her friends from the hospital. And then she saw me, and waved.

For some reason, I thought it would be rude to wave to someone else while the person you were with was in the middle of speaking. So I ducked my head and chose not to respond to Z's gesture.

Bad mistake.

She came running up to me and Beth. "Hi, Mark! I didn't know you would be . . . " She trailed off, apparently not having seen Beth until she walked to the table.

Beth stood up. "Um. Sorry, but, who are you?"

Oh, shit.

"I . . . I didn't know I was interrupting anything," Z said quietly. I was about to reassure her that she wasn't, when Beth cut in:

"Um, yeah, you were. Mark and I are on a _date_."

Oh, hell.

Z's bright eyes darted back and forth between me and Beth, and then she cleared her throat. "Wow, um. Okay, then. I'm sorry. I was hoping I'd get to talk to you again, Mark. But I guess that's out of the question. So, uh, I guess I'll go."

She ran off as quickly as she'd come, and I realized I didn't want to let her go. I stood up. "Uh, Beth, I'm sorry. I have to go after her. I'll be right back, okay?"

I turned away from her apparently offended expression and headed outside. Z was there, leaning against the wall of the restaurant.

I walked up to her tentatively. "Z?"

She looked up at me and shook her head. "Aren't you in the middle of a date? I have to hail a cab in a few seconds, so . . . "

I couldn't help but press on: "Didn't you come with friends?"

"They'll be fine without me," she replied curtly.

I sighed, leaning against the wall beside her. "I didn't mean to ruin your evening. I mean, if I did ruin your evening. But if I didn't, uh . . . " Your awkward dad strikes again, kids.

Z stared down at the sidewalk. "Can I tell you something honestly?"

"Sure."

"That girl you were with is a total bitch."

I chuckled. "I think so, too."

"Then why are you with her?"

I sighed. "Maureen set us up on a date tonight. She's worried I'm gonna grow old alone, or something like that," I muttered.

"I don't think you will," Z replied softly, "I mean . . . you have friends. You'll never be alone. And, you know . . . I've gotten to know you more with every trip to the hospital you make for them. I think you're a better friend, a better person than you give yourself credit for."

I shrugged. "I dunno."

"I do," she said. And I looked into her eyes and realized what she was trying to say. Oh, dear.

She never looked more pretty in the moonlight that night. I wanted to reach out to her and hold her. But something was telling me I couldn't.

She went on: "What I'm trying to say is . . . if you feel like you're really lonely, you have your friends and . . .well . . . you have me, too. I think you're a great guy."

She inched closer to me, and that's when I got stupid.

I backed away, slowly. "Z . . . um, I really can't do this right now, okay?"

Suddenly her green eyes seemed to light up like fire. She stepped away from the wall to stand in front of me. "What are you so afraid of, Mark?" she asked bluntly.

I sighed. "I don't know. I don't know if I can be with anyone right now."

"Why not?"

"Because no one understands," I found myself saying, and I realized this is what I'd been trying to express all along, "No one understands what it's like for me."

Her expression grew softer at this last statement. "Mark . . . I understand. I work with people who are sick, every single day."

"You _work_ with them," I countered, "They're not your best friends. The people who are important in your life. You don't understand. You couldn't."

"How can you _assume_ that, Mark?" she cried, "You can't assume there's _no one_ in this world you can relate to."

Suddenly, I was angry, too. "You're not going through what I'm going through," I spat.

"Well, maybe I have in the past," she said, and I froze.

" . . . What?"

"My older brother died of a brain tumor. I watched it happen. Are you satisfied?"

We stood there for a moment; she wrapped her arms tightly around herself before turning to walk away.

I didn't go after her. Why? Because I'm an idiot. But my being an idiot for so long was all worth what would happen soon after.


	16. And That's How I Met Your Mother

**A/N: Final chapter here, folks! Thanks for keeping up with this story. I really enjoyed writing it. Keep a lookout for some upcoming Buffy fanfics of mine. Until then, keep eating those veggies and keep loving the musical that defined a generation, _Rent_. DISCLAIMER: Don't own RENT, never will. Only own my OCs (Z, Beth, etc).**

* * *

I sat at home with my face in my hands, trying to figure out what to do about the situation at hand. I had completely hurt Z without realizing it, and once again, I was alone.

I always, _always_ ended up alone.

Roger emerged from his bedroom at 8 AM. He raised an eyebrow at my slumped frame. "What the hell happened to you? Was the date shitty?"

Of course I'd told Roger about Maureen's little set-up. Despite his being mad at me, I still told him everything.

"Beth was obnoxious."

"Well, duh. Anyone who's friends with Maureen is obnoxious."

I wanted to laugh, but didn't have the energy. "I saw Z there," I said quietly.

Roger reached into the cupboard of our kitchen area to grab a coffee cup. "Who, the nurse who has the hots for you?"

I blinked. "The what?"

"Oh, come on, Mark. You couldn't see it? She's in love with you. Anyway, what happened?"

God, had I screwed up. I mean, I knew the night before that Z had developed some kind of feelings for me. But I didn't know they'd been noticeable enough for my _friends_ to see.

"I saw her. And we argued, and . . . she ran away." And then I spilled the beans, telling him what had gone on.

In the middle of pouring stale coffee into a mug, Roger froze. He turned to face me, his eyebrows raised. "Mark Cohen, could you _be_ more of a damn idiot?"

What Roger was about to drill into my head, kids, is something I'll never forget. It's what I've been saying all along to you two, but it's because it came from the mouth of my best friend that it really stuck with me all these years.

"I don't care what the hell you think you're trying to prove. I don't care if you don't think things will work out. But if you don't get up off your sorry ass and find her, right now, I will kick said ass to infinity."

"Roger, what the hell?" I cried, standing up.

"I will get Collins and Maureen and Joanne; hell, I'll find away to bring Mimi and Angel from the high heavens to talk some sense into you, Cohen. I'll bring your _mother_ to the city again."

"Oh, God, not Mom-"

"_Listen_ to me, Mark," Roger continued, slamming his mug on the table, "If you screw this one up, I swear to God, you're hopeless. You need to stop pushing people away because you have this sick mindset you're gonna end up alone in the end. It's people like her that'll make sure you _won't_, you thick-headed dumbass!" (There were a lot more swears here, but I'm trying to censor this story for you kids as best I can . . . )

I gaped at him. "I can't just go after her, Rog. Not after what I said."

"Oh, yes, you can," he argued, "You're going to _run_ after her until your damn legs fall off. Because she is going to help you live your life the way you _need_ to. Let's face it: I'm not gonna be around all your life to keep yelling sense into you. Let's say it one more time, Mark," Roger's voice began to rise, "I'm dying, and you're _not_. So start acting like it instead of cowering in a corner. You hear?"

I couldn't say anything to him in reply, because I knew he was right. All this time, he'd been right.

I grabbed my coat and scarf, and ran like hell.

I could hear Roger mutter after me, "Damn right, you pansy. Go get her."

I ran through the hospital entrance, wondering where in the building Z could be, if she was even there at all. Did she work morning shifts? God, I didn't know.

All I knew was I wanted to be with her. She'd been there for me when no one else had, and I'd been too much of a fool to realize that.

I could almost hear Angel and Mimi in my mind, urging me to find her. I wasn't going to let them down. Not anymore.

It was then everything seemed to come in full-circle.

As I was blindly walking down the hallways of the first floor, I bumped into someone.

"Oh, excuse me-"

And it was her.

Z's eyes widened. She was clutching a clipboard, wearing her usual work attire, and she looked beautiful as ever. "Mark, what are you doing here?"

"I . . . I had to come find you. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. For everything. And I wanted to thank you for . . . for being the person I could go to when I needed someone most. You're one of the kindest, most honest people I've ever met." I took a deep breath. "I just wanted you to know that. It's okay, uh, if you hate me."

Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she hesitantly took a step toward me. "I don't hate you, Mark Cohen. It's quite the opposite, actually."

I blushed a little. "Maybe we should start over."

She nodded. "That sounds good!" She stuck out her hand cheesily. "Hi!"

"Hi there," I said with a smirk, shaking her hand, "I'm Mark." I paused thoughtfully. "I've been calling you Z for so long I forgot it was just a nickname. Is it bad I don't know your name?"

She giggled. "Most people don't. I like it that way."

"So, what is it?" I asked goofily.

"Lizzie. Elizabeth."

When we kissed, I could've sworn the world stopped, right then and there. Pressed against each other, it was like time had chosen to freeze for a moment, just for us.

* * *

"Oh, my _God_," Angela breathed, bouncing up and down on the couch, "Z was Mom all along! Dad, that was mean of you not to say so."

Mark shrugged. "What can I say? I like to tell a good, suspenseful story. And it helped that I dated someone named Beth right before your mother and I got together. I just loved seeing the looks on your faces."

Angela rolled her eyes, while Andrew nodded slowly. "So . . . that's how you met mom. And how you ended up with her."

"Yup. It all started and ended with my friends," Mark said, "And I'm happier than ever. I don't have a single regret about how things turned out."

"So? You got married that year, right?" Angela pressed.

Mark laughed a little. "Well, we dated first, of course. I was pretty traditional about that, and so was she. But we just _knew_ . . . we knew it was right." Mark made a face at Andrew's faux gagging noises and mutters of _So cheesie_!, before he went on: "We got pregnant with you, Angie, almost right after I proposed to your mother. The wedding was another big step for me."

* * *

"If Maureen goes up to sing another song from _Hair_, there might be a problem," my now-wife joked, twining hands with me under the table. It was our wedding reception, and of course Maureen had already made a spectacle of herself. My mother had almost fainted when Maureen had attempted to do a strip tease on stage.

I sighed. "You think this is bad? Try dating her."

Lizzie smirked, leaning against my shoulder. "I can't believe we're _married_," she said dreamily.

Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, I kissed the top of her head. "Me either."

Collins wandered up to me, patting me on the back. "Hey, man. Mazal tov!"

"Thanks." I pulled him into a hug, and Collins leaned down to kiss Liz on the cheek.

"Want to know something funny?" he asked as he plopped in a seat across from us, and we both nodded. "Angel knew you two were gonna get hitched as soon as you met."

Liz raised her eyebrows. "What?"

"It's true," Collins assured, "She told me . . . while she was in the hospital. That you'd be perfect for each other. And she was right."

I squeezed Z's hand. Just then, Roger sauntered over to our table, a drink in his hand. "Well, this is lovely and beautiful and all that shit. Collins, I'm surprised you haven't messed with the DJ's records so he'd play The Sex Pistols on repeat."

"It was a thought, I'll admit," Collins said with a grin. He then turned to the table behind him to talk with Benny and Allison ("Things were still okay with Uncle Benny?" "Yes. Better than okay, actually. Mimi had brought us all together, and that bond never loosened.")

I couldn't help but notice how tired Roger looked. He hadn't been doing so well in recent months. I had a terrible feeling he might not make it much longer.

Roger would always be my best friend, and I would hurt terribly when he would eventually be gone to join Mimi and Angel. Same went for Collins.

But as Roger pulled up a seat beside me and gave me a knowing, appreciative glance, I knew all that didn't matter at the moment.

The point was, I was doing my friends justice: the friends who were celebrating with Z and me, and the friends who weren't.

Because I knew that was what they deserved. All this time, they'd so profoundly affected my life, in so many ways.

I thought of Roger and his attitude that gave me a good kicking when I needed it. I thought of Collins and his ever-working mind. I thought of the Best Friends Code. I thought of Maureen and her silliness that always put a smile on my face. I thought of Joanne's determination. Even Benny had impacted my life: he'd allowed Roger and Maureen and Collins and me to strive for what we were passionate about. And of course, I remembered Angel and her inspiring passion to live life to the fullest, and Mimi's ever-present will power.

Now, I realized, it was my turn to inspire_ them_.

And as I kissed Z with all the passion I had at that table with the lights dimmed on us, I knew I could do just that.

* * *

" . . . And that's how I met your mother," Mark finished shortly. He could tell by the kids' expressions, though, that they knew the story had meant much more than just that. Angela's eyes were a bit glossy with what he knew were tears. Andrew, being the tough guy, simply sat and stared.

Yes, the story had meant much more. And that had been Mark's goal all along.

"Mark? Kids? You home?" As if on cue, the front door opened and Elizabeth Cohen entered her home after a shift at work. After noticing her kids sitting side-by-side on the couch in complete silence, she raised her eyebrows. "Oh, no. What happened _this_ time?"

Mark chuckled, standing up. "Oh, no one's in trouble, hun. I was just giving the kids a bit of a talking-to."

They exchanged a glance as both Andrew and Angela got up with a comfortable, fulfilled silence. There was no tension from what either parent could see. Just reverence.

Liz smiled at her husband, who had made his way over to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Babe, what the _hell_ did you say to them?" she asked, in shock.

Mark planted a kiss on her cheek. "Oh, nothing," he said, taking her hand, "Just told them a story . . . "

FIN


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